My Brother's Keeper
by Fuu43
Summary: Teenchesters! The Winchesters try to recover from a hunt gone wrong when the unexpected occurs. LimpSam! BigBrotherDean! DrivenPapaWinchester!
1. An Empty Parking Lot

Title: My Brother's Keeper

Chapter One: An Empty Parking Lot

Rating: R

Warnings: A bit of descriptive gore and language.

Description: Teenchesters! The Winchesters try to recover from a hunt gone wrong when the unexpected occurs. LimpSam! BigBrotherDean! DrivenPapaWinchester!

Author's Note: I have to give a "Thank you Thank you Thank you" to youthere, who beta-ed this for me. Without a doubt this would be a mess without her. She catches everything and I mean EVERYTHING! I heart you to pieces! Any mistakes that are there are all mine! Also, I debated whether or not to split this into two chapters... but couldn't bring myself to actually do it... future chapters may be shorter-ish.

Author's Note II: Fair warning, this is NOT a deathfic. I repeat, this is NOT a deathfic.

* * *

Sam kept quiet and still, eyes darting between the book on his lap and his brother. He'd been stuck on the same page for the last twenty minutes, the words blurring whenever he'd managed to focus his attention for longer than two seconds. Despite how hard he tried to concentrate it felt as if he were reading another language. Nothing made sense and Sam wasn't certain if he was reading a book on the history of the Civil War or a retelling of ancient Greek myths.

The binding on the book was faded and worn enough that the title was no longer legible and the pages were just starting to yellow with age; he'd picked it up at one of the motels they'd stayed at. It had been peeking out from beneath the bed frame, long forgotten by another motel customer, and at the time Sam had never felt so lucky. The book was the newest in his tiny collection and he had been looking forward to reading it for days.

He played with the binding absently, his eyes flickering once more to Dean. Leaning forward, Sam half closed the book and discreetly took in his brother's appearance. Dean was slouched over in the corner, cleaning guns and lost in his own world. With the sun just starting to set behind him, his skin was stained a bright red hue. He looked like a bloody angel, the sun not only coloring his skin but creating a halo of light around him. Dean looked like he'd just walked off the battlefield, like he'd just folded his wings in and out of sight.

It made Sam shiver, the image in his head and the one in front of him melding together for a brief moment. Dean was his brother. Dean was a warrior sent by God. It was a thought he'd had before, a notion that had struck him previously when he'd been in trouble and his older brother had appeared like he always did. Sam shook the thought away, trying to concentrate instead on the truth in front of him. He wasn't a kid anymore and Dean couldn't fix everything.

Sam could see the tension in Dean's arms and legs, the tight way he held his shoulders as if all of his attention was centered on the task in front of him. His brother's head bobbed as he finished up the last weapon, exhaustion making his eyes flutter half shut occasionally.

Although the sun was just starting to dip out of the sky, Dean was more than just winding down for the evening. In fact, Sam was surprised his brother had managed to stay alert for so long. At noon the older boy had already started downing coffee, seeming to need every drop of caffeine he could get. He'd been jittery all afternoon, his attention sliding quickly from task to task as he'd clearly fought to keep himself awake and alert.

Sam didn't like seeing his brother so worn and weak, wanted to push him onto a bed and make him rest. His hands flexed at the thought, the edges of the book digging into his palms. Even in the state he was in Dean could easily subdue his younger brother.

The last hunt they'd pulled had been one big screw up from beginning to end and Dean was still recovering. It had taken him twice as long to dress and shower just that morning and he hadn't even complained when their father had given him several pain pills and a stern look. His shoulder was a mess of purple bruises and small cuts, the markings so dark in some places that they reminded Sam of rotten fruit. Looking at them made Sam nauseous, even thinking about them had him queasy.

It didn't help that the entire thing had been Sam's fault. He had messed up, like always, and Dean had paid for it, like always. His brother tried to play it off, tried to make his injury seem like nothing more than an inconvenience, but Sam _knew_. Even today, a little over a week later, Dean was still popping pain pills like candy and grimacing whenever he thought Sam wasn't looking.

If Dean was trying to pull the wool over Sam's eyes, if he thought that he was succeeding in his little charade, than he was sorely mistaken. Sam couldn't keep his eyes off his brother.

Dean's forced cheerfulness made Sam ill, just looking at his brother made him feel like throwing a hissy fit a kid half his age would. He wanted to stomp his feet, to cry and beg and undo the mistakes he had made.

Sam knew, however, that pretending to be fine made Dean happy on some level. He thought he was protecting his younger brother's feelings, believed that the younger boy's emotions deserved to be shielded. That they had to be protected.

He mistakenly believed that Sam's needs came before his own, which he'd demonstrated on the botched hunt, defending his brother after Sam's clumsiness had made an unscheduled appearance.

Afterward, their father had helped Dean up and practically carried the younger man to the car. Although Dean had been conscious and clearly not in any life threatening danger, he'd been suffering from a concussion and was talking just crazy enough that Sam's heart had stopped. Dean's words had been slurred, his balance non-existent.

Sam could remember stumbling behind, afraid to take his gaze off his feet. He'd never felt so ashamed. His father had been unsurprisingly disappointed and even now, just being in the same room with his dad was enough to make Sam sick to his stomach. He could feel the weight of his failure like fifty pound bags of sand hanging around his neck. He was certain any moment that they would weigh him down, that his legs would give out and he would sink to his knees.

They'd patched Dean up and rested in the dingy motel room until the worst of his symptoms had passed. Those days were a blur to Sam, hovering next to his brother's bed and cringing every time his father's eyes passed over him. Only two days of bed rest later, however, Dean had declared himself 'fit' and their dad had packed them up without another word.

He had asked his brother later if he really was okay, had cornered him in the bathroom and talked to him in a low voice while their father had packed supplies into the car. Dean had smiled and said he was fine, but Sam could clearly see the lines of pain still etched into the skin on his face.

The hunt they'd moved onto was at least easy, if not a total joke. Sam still wasn't certain if he believed his father's words, if there really was anything supernatural happening in this tiny town in northern Oregon. He was okay with that, though; okay with his father fudging the facts if that was the case. Dean needed to recover and this hunt was perfect.

Sam glanced at the meager pile of 'evidence' they'd managed to gather in the last three days. It was so sparse it was almost pathetic. A couple people had turned up dead, mauled by what was assumed to be some sort of wildcat. The markers from the coroner's report seemed to match the description of a large feline and cougars were known to roam the heavily wooded area. The town was so tiny that the police station was connected to the local waffle house. Sam had spent hours looking over books, digging through old newspapers but couldn't figure out what supernatural thing could have caused the deaths or even if there was a pattern. So far he had no reason to suspect anything odd.

It happened sometimes, they'd stumble across a death that really was an accident or a run of the mill murder. With their father usually scouting things out it was a rare occasion but Sam knew the last hunt had left them all off kilter. None of them were on their games and it made this dud of a hunt a lot easier to deal with. Dean wouldn't complain that he was being babied and Dad could immerse himself in work while at the same time ignoring his youngest.

And Dean had been resting, had gritted his teeth the last two days and 'taken it easy' while Sam and their father had looked through newspapers and books. Today he'd pulled himself out of bed the second their dad had left and looked at Sam as if daring his younger brother to say something. When Sam hadn't, he'd showered and then spent a good two hours cleaning their weapons. Sam hadn't been able to bring himself to say anything, couldn't seem to have a conversation with his brother without reopening the barely scabbed wound of shame and apologizing again.

Sam was crossing his fingers that they could wrap everything up in the next twenty four hours and then move on. Hopefully by then his brother would be almost completely mended, if not mostly on the way. He was almost there, beneath the tight smiles and careful movements Sam could see the cocky swagger slowly starting to return. His eyes strayed back to his brother and he jumped, finding that Dean had moved while Sam had been daydreaming.

"Pizza?"

His brother's voice was rough, his eyebrows low as he pulled out his cell phone. Sam glanced at the bedside clock, the bright red numbers declaring that it was already after six. Though the sun hung low in the sky, it hadn't really clicked for him that the day was coming to an end. His time with Dean had blurred, minutes and hours melting together as Sam tried to pull himself out of the pool of guilt he seemed to be drowning in.

"Yeah." Sam met his brother's gaze for a moment before studying the faded comforter, "Dad should be home soon, too."

Dean nodded, already dialing and tapping his foot. Sam set the book on the bedside table, not bothering to see what page he'd made it to, before trudging over to the small bathroom. His brother's words as he spoke on the phone passed over him like background buzz. The bathroom mirror was chipped and faded, the wallpaper curling on three of the walls, and the smell of mildew was so strong it nearly killed the small amount of hunger Sam felt. He turned the tap on, ignoring the dirty brown water, and lathered his hands up before plunging them into the filthy liquid. He washed his hands methodically, keeping his eyes from the mirror in front of him.

Lately, looking at himself had just caused his lips to curl.

Drying his hands, he jumped at the knock on the half open door.

"Should be here soon. You done?"

Sam nodded jerkily, wiping his hands on the frayed towel and stepping around his brother. Dean leaned heavily against the door, smiling even as he tried to keep his balance.

"Money is on the table."

The door closed with an audible click, Dean undoubtedly downing pain killers and rubbing the stiffness from his shoulders. His head falling forward, Sam let his gaze run over the decrepit room to the cash on the table. Noticing the half empty duffle bag next to the cash, he walked across the room and glanced at the weapons Dean was in the process of cleaning. Although he knew how to fire a gun, Dean didn't like him touching them when they weren't hunting or practicing. He'd had one accident at eleven, one measly little accident, and Dean hadn't forgotten. Sam was sure that Dad was on Dean's side as well; Sam never got gun cleaning duty. Ever.

Glancing at the kit, he lightly pawed through the cleaning supplies, seeing immediately how low they were. He heard the water turn on in the bathroom.

Even though he knew it didn't make up for everything that had happened, he slipped on his sneakers and grabbed his jacket and the car keys. There was an extra kit in the car; he'd seen it a few days ago, crammed under the front passenger seat.

"Be right back, Dean."

He slipped out of the motel room before his brother could emerge, briskly moving across the uneven pavement towards the Impala.

They'd only been a couple blocks from the police station and his father had opted to walk there on the off chance his children would unexpectedly need the car. Sam could see the building on the other side of the motel, the bright lights of the attached waffle house like a beacon on the otherwise empty street. The motel was empty, only one other car parked on the far end of the lot. It looked rusted through and was missing a side mirror. This town was so small Sam was surprised they even had a motel.

Around him, the evening air was brisk, burning his lungs and making his hands feel clumsy as he zipped up his hoodie. Reaching the car, he unlocked the front passenger door and leaned into the open vehicle. Hearing an odd shuffle, he paused and strained his ears. It would be just his luck to get robbed. He was certain the dinky town probably had two whole crimes committed a year, both by teenagers caught stealing from the local grocery store. The noise came again, quiet enough that he had to strain his ears to hear it.

Sam slowly straightened up. At fourteen he was tall and gangly and about as imposing as a piece of string cheese. He let his hand stray to his back pocket; the knife he carried was sharp and hopefully big enough to scare away some punk looking for his wallet. The noise sounded again, an odd snuffle accompanying it.

He turned his body, his knife half drawn in case he was completely mistaken.

And he was.

Whatever the hell it was, it sure wasn't some punk robber.

* * *

Sam coughed and choked, his mouth opening and closing as he frantically pulled in oxygen. Above him the sky was red and purple, several clouds drifting lazily. His eyes blinked automatically; the last few minutes were a blurry haze. He searched his memory frantically for a second, stumbling when it hit a blank. He was outside, the sky above him made that one fact obvious. But Sam couldn't even remember why he'd left the motel. Dean had been cleaning the guns and Sam had been reading and Dad was gone and then… and then…

Where was Dean?

He tried to turn his head; the ground beneath him was strangely soft.

There was an odd sound in his ears, a roaring that echoed strangely. Over it he could hear someone gasping, a rhythmic choking noise.

His eyes shifted, the sky above him rolling as Dean's face came into view. His brother was hunched over him, his necklace hanging between them as his mouth formed words Sam couldn't hear. There were goose bumps on his brother's arms and his eyes were strangely wet. Dean turned his head slightly, speaking to someone else.

Sam watched a bead of sweat slowly roll down the side of his brother's face. At this angle he could see it run over Dean's jaw and down his neck, progressing slowly. He watched his brother's throat move as he continued to speak, and his attention slid back to the bead of liquid as it slowly sunk out of sight beneath the shirt his brother was wearing.

With the distraction gone, Sam's gaze followed Dean's and landed squarely on his father. The man was so close that Sam was surprised he hadn't noticed earlier. His Dad was crouched nearly on top of his legs, his fingers frantically paging through the journal he held.

The sleeves of his father's shirt were pushed up to his elbows, his tan forearms and large hands seeming suddenly too large for the small book they clutched. His knuckles were white and beneath his tight grasp, pages bent and in some places tore. Sam watched him for several moments, wondering why his father was in such a rush. Sam himself had gotten reamed more than once for mishandling the most precious of his father's possessions.

Dean leaned closer, cutting out his father completely and filling up everything in Sam's sight except for the sky. He looked like an angel again.

"_Sammy."_

This time Sam could read the word on his brother's lips, could hear the echo of his voice at the edge of his mind. He didn't know, though if what he heard was simply the memory of his brother's voice, or the actual sound coming from Dean's mouth. His head was trapped in a jar, his thoughts struggling through gooey molasses.

His body was strangely warm, his hands and feet tingling while the rest of him felt weirdly disconnected. He wanted to ask his brother if Dean had accidentally slipped him beer; he'd heard kids at school say that it made you feel fuzzy and strange.

He swallowed, gagging at the warm taste of copper that filled his mouth. His throat didn't seem to want to work properly and he choked on the liquid.

"_No, no, no, no, no, no."_

The far away sound of his brother echoed again and when Sam blinked his head had been turned to face his shoulder. Next to him, Sam could see the impala, its form from this angle monstrous and strange. The tire closest to him rested in a pool of glaring red, the liquid slowly spreading out under the car, swallowing up rocks, sticks, and random pieces of garbage.

His eyes skittered across the pavement beneath him, halting only momentarily on his own shoulder and arm. From his position he could see his arm sprawled out next to him, his fingers twitching in pattern he didn't recognize. Someone had spilled on his arm too; it was a mess of red.

Dean's body shifted into his line of sight again and Sam was thankful. He still had to ask his brother something and was curious who had spilled all over the pavement and just what it could be. From the angle he was at, Sam couldn't see if it had gotten on the car, but knew that his dad would be pissed if it needed a washing. Money was tight and washing the Impala was a luxury they usually couldn't afford.

"_Hey, stay with me."_

Sam's attention skittered back to his brother, finding that Dean had moved a hand to his face. He could feel the hand against his skin, though it felt as if his brother had wrapped it in cotton. His brother's knees were an inch deep in red; the fabric of his worn jeans soaked through.

He blinked, his eyes sticking shut for several moments until he was able to force them open. It was as if he had sleep in his eyes, as if there were small weights tied to each of them. Dean had moved closer, so close that Sam could see the gold flecks in his eyes, could smell beneath the copper the barbecue chips his brother had been snacking on.

"_Sammy."_

Dean's voice still sounded far away. There was an odd note to it too, a tension that he'd never heard before. It wavered, his brother saying something else that Sam missed, and he wished he could identify just what his brother was so upset about. He thought that he knew all of his brother's looks, each of his brother's tones. This was strange, though… unnatural.

The taste of copper in his mouth intensified, welling up and out from between his half parted lips.

"_God Sammy."_

Dean had leaned closer, was so close now that he filled up everything. Sam tried to tilt his head, to see what their father was doing, but his neck had stopped working.

" –_ve you."_

Sam's attention moved back to his brother, his focus moving in and out enough that he missed half of whatever his brother had said.

There was an odd ringing that started to fill his ears, a sense of weightlessness that filled his body. He watched his brother; Dean's frantic stare seeming to see right through him.

He took a shaky breath and let it out.

* * *

Dean came to consciousness slowly, his body heavy and his mind a foggy mess. The comforting sound of a running engine filled his ears and his body rocked as the car turned and stopped before starting again. He took in a mouthful of air and could taste the old leather, stale fast food wrappers, and gun cleaner. It was familiar enough that he let himself relax, staying slumped against the worn seat and cool window.

Unsure whether or not he'd been awake or asleep, Dean listened to the rumbling engine of the Impala and let the lull of it dull his senses. A thick haze surrounded him and his shoulder ached just enough that the pain kept him hovering on the edge between drifting and awareness. He wondered how long they'd been on the road, why his father hadn't shaken him and handed him pills to swallow dry. His father had been watching him closely the last few days, treating him more like a toddler than the teenager he was. Now, with his shoulder aching and his stomach feeling queasy, he wished his dad had poked, prodded, and shoved the pills down his throat.

There was no music playing as they drove and the change had Dean's ears straining. He was used to the sounds always filling up the space between him, his dad, and his brother. Even in the dead of night the radio played softly while Dean and Sam slept and their dad drove. The thick quiet had him slowly pulling himself out of stupor he had fallen into, blinking grainy eyes and staring blearily at the dirt road illuminated by the pale glow of the Impala's headlights. He half turned in the front seat, trying to tug his leather coat closer before realizing he wasn't wearing it. His hands were stiff and his wrists felt sore. He wiped his hands unconsciously on his jeans, then flexed his fingers and wiped them again. They felt stiff and dirty, as if caked with dry mud.

He glanced down at them, and in the dark light of the evening they seemed to be stained an off colored brown. His jeans were stained too and his shirt was torn in several places. He brought a hand up to the shirt, parting it and looking down at his chest. He could just make out some sort of design over his heart, drawn in the same mud as the rest of the mess he seemed to be covered in. Confused, he glanced at his dad.

"Da-"

Dean choked mid word, his throat raw and sore.

Across the car, his father glanced at him from the corner of his eye before his gaze flickered back to the road. His hands clenched the steering wheel, white knuckled as he turned the car at nearly full speed. Dean grabbed at the seat beneath him, taking in his father's pale face and rumpled clothes. He made to turn his head, instinctively needing to see his brother curled up and asleep in the back seat. With the quiet engulfing them he felt out of place, strange. However, his head only moved fractionally before his father's hand locked onto his neck. Jumping in his seat, Dean turned his attention back to the older man.

"What?"

Dean's voice was scratchy but surprisingly loud in the quiet space. When his father still held him, his heartbeat started to quicken. His hand was callused against Dean's neck and as dirty as his own.

"Don't look, Dean."

Dean listened to his father's words, a deep feeling of dread slowly spreading through him. His father's voice was hard, a tone his son recognized immediately. It meant he had shut down, had closed out the pain he was feeling. Dean glanced down at his stained hands again and suddenly his memories came flooding back.

_Oh God._

He hunched forward in his seat, unable to control the sound of pain that worked itself free. Eyes clenched shut, he swallowed down the taste of bile that rose like a tidal wave. He was going to be sick; he was going to throw himself from the moving car.

Behind his shut eyes the image of his brother flashed and Dean forced them open again. He hadn't ever seen so much blood before, hadn't ever come across a monster or victim that had bled even a tenth as much. Sam though, Sam had been a small speck in the pool of red around him. Dean hadn't even realized a person could have so much blood in them. It had looked like a scene out of a bad horror film, like a poorly designed set waiting to be used while the actors took a lunch break.

Sam, glassy eyed and in shock, hadn't even recognized him at first. He'd stared up at the sky and Dean had been certain that his brother wasn't in his death throes… he was already dead. But he hadn't been, Sam had blinked and really looked and suddenly Dean had been unable to breath.

"Is he - "

Dean couldn't even finish the sentence, the words were like ash on his tongue. He leaned forward, breathing noisily through his mouth as he fought down the nausea. He couldn't make himself say the words out loud. It simply couldn't be true. They hadn't been anywhere dangerous, hadn't even been on a hunt or in a car accident or practicing with weapons. They had been relaxing, his geek brother reading and staring off into space as Dean had contemplated how to cheer him up.

But there had been so much blood – both Dean and his dad were covered in it. There wasn't any way that Sam could have survived.

_Be right back Dean._

The words echoed and twisted, had him frantically opening the glove compartment in front of him and pulling out napkins. Bile rushed up and out of his mouth, burning a path as it traveled. The napkins barely caught the mess; it pooled in the cupped napkins like a lake. Next to him he could hear his father cursing and Dean fought to keep more down even as the car slowed.

The Impala shuddered to a stop and Dean fumbled with the door momentarily before getting it open. Falling to his knees just outside, he leaned forward and threw up. The chips he'd been snacking on earlier felt like razor blades.

It was just starting to rain and the grass beneath him swayed sluggishly from a slight wind. His hands dug into the loose gravel beneath them. He let all of his weight rest on his hands, welcoming the pain that echoed through his shoulder at the shift.

He trembled, shutting his eyes and fighting back the urge to curl up and cry.

_Sammy._

Dean felt as if he'd been torn in two, as if he'd been the one bleeding out under the setting sun. He choked on the sobs that were fighting to get free, tried not to think about what had to be in the back seat of the car.

He distantly heard his father's door open and close, listened absently as the older man rounded the car. Everything felt far away, bizarre and strange. Sam was in the car, not sleeping, complaining, or reading. His brother who had been torn apart, who had choked to death on his own blood. Dean hunched forward, his elbows hitting the slick pavement as he collapsed closer to the ground.

"Come on. Out of the rain, Dean."

He listened to his father's voice, could hear the buried anguish in each word. His dad hadn't wanted him to look, didn't want Dean to see his brother glassy eyed and pale. Why, Dean didn't know. He already had once that day. He didn't fight the hand that rested on his shoulder, the tight grip his father took as he pulled him up and onto his knees.

"Out of the rain, now."

Dean listened, more out of habit than anything else, and forced himself back through the open car door behind him. He sat, halfway in, halfway out for a moment, looking at his hands, at how Sam's dried up blood was starting to drip onto the floor of the Impala after being rewetted.

"Dean."

His father's voice cut through the sound of his own heavy breathing and the sound of the rain starting to pitter patter on the roof above. He stood in the rain, still outside of the car, and looked like he'd aged twenty years in the last twenty four hours. Dean tried to respond, tried to force himself to say that he was 'okay', but he couldn't. Dean wasn't okay, didn't think he could ever be okay.

Not after realizing he was going to have to bury his little brother.

He hung his head in his hands and waited for the world to end. That it could keep going with Sam gone seemed unfair. He felt his father move closer and shift him until he was fully in the car. Dean couldn't make his eyes open, couldn't allow himself to draw air in through his nose. He was certain now that the car smelled of death and the thought was enough to have him choking back bile again.

The door shut and the sound of the rain grew distant. His father climbed back into the driver's side moments later, the rain cutting in and out as the door opened and closed.

"Fuck Dean."

His dad's hands were suddenly on him, twisting Dean around until he faced the older man fully. Dean opened his mouth, to curse or scream or cry, but trembled instead when his father reached over and pulled his shirt open exposing the mark Dean had noticed earlier. His father studied it for a moment before leaning forward, resting his head on Dean's shoulder and making a motion as if to touch the mark. He didn't.

"Dad?"

Dean could hear the broken quality to his voice, asking the question because he thought he should. He didn't think he could bring himself to care about anything anymore. His dad backed away, rubbing at his eyes and leaving pale red streaks that made him look like a boy playing cowboys and Indians.

"It's Sam. Okay?"

Hearing his brother's name spoken aloud had him splintering. The world around him turned grey; he wanted to stick his head in a bucket of sand and forget about everything. Even now Dean could feel his brother. Was certain that if he turned his head Sam would be behind him, smiling goofily or sulking like the teenager he was fast becoming. But while his own breathing and his father's were audible, no noise came from behind him.

He opened his mouth to respond, to tell his father to just stop because he couldn't take it anymore, couldn't understand how, with Sam gone, Dean was still breathing.

"That symbol, it can't be wrecked, understand?"

Dean let his eyes flicker down to his chest, momentarily taking in the symbol his father had drawn on him in Sam's blood. He didn't recognize it.

"Why?"

His voice sounded dead in his own ears and the feeling was echoed inside. If Sam was gone, Dean should be too.

"Because," a ghost of a smile caught on his father's face and it seemed so glaringly out of place that Dean startled. His father reached again as if to touch and again let his hand stop short. He was shaking. "It holds your brother's spirit, his soul."

Dean's blood rushed in his ears, making him grow dizzy and lightheaded. He was certain that his father had just told him the impossible. He leaned forward again, as if he were trying to shield a bloody wound. As if he was trying to hold in his guts. If he concentrated Dean could still see his brother's insides, spilling out of him and onto the pavement around him. Sam hadn't even realized, had watched him in confusion even as the last moments of his life melted away.

"Dean, did you hear me?" Dean shook his head, not in answer but in disbelief. Sam was gone. He was gone, gone, gone. He was a bloody corpse in the back seat. His insides had been on his outsides, he'd rested in a pool of his own cooling blood and started to decay.

"No, he isn't gone Dean."

He shook his head again, only slightly surprised that the words had been spoken out loud. He wanted to sleep, wanted to wake up from this awful nightmare.

"Dean, listen to me." Dean shook his head once more, this time stopping when his father's fingers caught it. He didn't want to listen; he wanted to be numb. His dad tugged at Dean's face until Dean had no choice but to look at him. "As long as you have that mark, Sam is with you."

He could feel his face crumple, could feel the tears slowly start to fall from his eyes. How could Sam be with him, how could Sam be anywhere, when his corpse was rotting not two feet away?

"How?" The word was so choked with tears it was barely discernible.

His father sighed, wrapping his hand around the back of his son's neck and rubbing at the skin soothingly. Dean swallowed back a soft sob, bringing up a hand to clutch at the front of his father's shirt. He felt as if he were seven again, as if he'd just woken from a nightmare.

"Can you, feel him?" His dad sounded unsure and Dean tried not to pull away and punch the man. Of course Dean could feel his brother; his brother was everything that made Dean good. His brother still hung in the air around them, still filled Dean's lungs and made his heart beat in his chest.

"I always could Dad."

His father pulled away, letting Dean slide back into his spot and stare forward numbly. He shivered and pulled his arms around him as the Impala started up again and continued to drive. The road in front of them was edged on both sides by trees, but they sped by so quickly that Dean didn't bother to concentrate on them.

He glanced down at the mark on his chest, not nearly as curious as he thought he probably should be. Sam was gone and no silly scribble was going to bring him back.

Dean leaned against the window, the cold glass soothing against the headache that pounded against his skull. Dean let his eyes slip shut, let the waves of pain and exhaustion steal over him. He didn't want to go to sleep, didn't want to stay awake, and somehow, instead hovered between the two.

They drove in silence, Dean neither knowing nor caring where they were headed. There was no cure for death; there was no way to set this right. He only wondered how long he'd have to try and hold it together before he gave into the despair he was drowning in. Already, he was certain he wouldn't last long. How could he?

_Dean…_

His heart ached at the voice, the soft sound of his brother teasing his senses. If he hadn't known better Dean would have sworn that his brother was wedged in next to him, leaning forward and whispering to him as their father drove. Dean felt hazy, tired, could almost feel the hairs of Sam's bangs teasing his ear as he leaned in to tell a secret or a joke.

_Dean__ blinked, surprised to find himself back in the motel parking lot his brother had been attacked in. The Impala's door was open and behind it the sunset filled the sky with oranges and reds. Leaning against the hood of the car was his brother, shuffling his feet and glancing around as if confused. Dean cursed, his eyes drinking in the sight of a brother who breathed and moved. Sam wore what he'd died in, but the clothing was no longer torn or stained. There were no gaping holes in his middle, no splotches of blood. _

_Dean had somehow fallen asleep and the sight of Sam was enough to have tears pool in his eyes. That he had to go through this, that it had to be this place, almost had him turn away. He wasn't ready yet for these sorts of dreams, didn't know if he could handle seeing his brother._

_How could he apologize? How could he possibly atone?_

_He knew the minute his brother noticed him; Sam stopped scuffling his feet and smiled so widely that Dean couldn't help the tentative smile on his own face. Sam looked like he'd been crying, his face was blotchy__._

"_Dean."_

_Suddenly his brother was wrapped around him and the scent of Sam was so strong it had Dean's knees buckling. He landed hard on them, his body automatically bringing up its arms to hold Sam close._

"_Sammy."_

_He whispered the word into his brother's hair, could feel the warmth radiating from__ the smaller body. If Dean concentrated he could even hear the beating of his brother's heart in his chest. Sam had started to grow too old for hugs in the past year, had brushed his brother away after waking from a nightmare or taking a spill on a hunt. Dean could admit that he had missed the sensation of holding his brother close._

_Unable to stop himself, Dean started tearing up again, fighting back sobs and the great chasm of despair that was slowly starting to __swallow__ him. He wouldn't be able to hold his brother any more, wouldn't be able to knock him on the back of his head, or tickle him, or hug him close. This was it; a brother created by his __own__ imagination was all he would ever have again. How long would it take for him to forget the way Sam smiled, the way it felt to hug him or the sound of his voice? How long until all he had were memories of memories, a few faded pictures tattered with age?_

"_Dean, what's happening?" The fear in his brother's voice was obvious, his smaller frame hitching as he fought back his own tears, "Where am I?"_

"_Oh, God." Dean took an unsteady breath, rubbing at his brother's back as if Sam were a colicky baby. He pulled back, watching as the younger boy blinked up at him with huge wet eyes. "I can't do this, not yet. I'm sorry Sammy."_

_The dream was too much too soon. He couldn't deal with his__ grief when it manifested itself as his little brother. Dean pulled back, forcing his hands to let go of his brother. Sam clung to Dean as he tried to disengage._

"_I'm scared."_

_Sam sounded younger, as if he were seven or eight instead of fourteen. It was something that occasionally still happened, whenever he was seriously distraught. He turned into a kid again, believed that his older brother could fix every problem. The sound made Dean's chest ache. He couldn't fix this problem; there was no way for him to comfort a dream. No way for him to bring back a brother who had already left this world._

_He didn't answer Sam, uncertain that he could handle any more pain._

"_Dean?" Sam's eyes widened as Dean scurried back and out of his brother's reach. The younger boy reached forward, hands clenching as if he could wish his brother closer. "How did I get here? What's happening?"_

_Dean shook his head, wiping at the tears on his face and making himself meet his brother's gaze. The painful part was that Sam didn't look like a dream; he looked like a real person. His cheeks were red, his chest heaved in distress, and his hair looked like it hadn't been combed in days. He looked like Sam._

A loud thump had Dean jerking awake, shivering as the dream sluggishly replayed itself in his head. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. His mouth tasted like bile and sleep and around him the car was still silent; his dad stared forward like a zombie as he took the car down a worn dirt road. They hit another rough patch and Dean grabbed at the dash. How he had slept through this, he didn't know.

"Where are we going?"

Dean's voice cut through the small space like glass. If his father had realized that he'd drifted off, he said nothing of it.

"We need a safe secluded spot."

"Why?" Dean's mouth worked before his mind had caught up, the reason so crystal clear that it had him shutting his eyes. Of course they needed a safe spot, of course they had to go somewhere private. It wasn't everyday that you burned and buried a family member. He could feel his father's eyes on him but kept his own closed. He couldn't handle this, couldn't deal with it.

He suddenly wanted a drink, wanted to burn the entire world away with a bottle of hard liquor and a match.

His father said nothing.

_Dean._

Dean froze, his eyes popping open as he tried to slow his racing heart. That he was hearing his brother while awake couldn't be a good sign. He had to hold it together for a little longer.

_Dean._

Sam's voice sounded again, quietly whispering next to him, inside of him. It was crazy and unhealthy and so painful that Dean knew he needed it to stop. If he started dreaming of Sam and hearing him while he was awake, Dean was certain he wouldn't last more than a few days. He forced his head to turn, to take in the body resting in the back seat. His dad didn't stop him and Dean hoped that this final acknowledgment would be enough to quiet his imagination.

Sam lay sprawled out, his upper body and face covered in Dean's coat. His father had wrapped strips of cloth around his middle and they were stained the ugly, rusty color of old blood. Sam's jeans were torn in the knee, his trainers were half tied and looked almost worn through on the bottom. His hand lay on the floor of the car and Dean remembered clinging to it and going numb while Sam had choked on his last breath and their father had mumbled Latin quietly.

_Oh God, am I dead?_

The voice was so loud that for a moment Dean expected Sam to sit up and pull the coat from his face. He remained unmoving though, an empty shell that no longer housed a soul. But Dean could still hear Sam sniffle, could feel his confusion.

Dean looked down at the mark on his chest, his mind still trying to connect the dots. He laid a hand over it, careful not to smudge any of the markings.

_Sammy?_

A rush of warmth filled him and, with a shock, Dean came to the only conclusion that seemed possible. Sam's body was dead and gone, a rotting corpse. But Sam's soul? The very essence that made Sam, Sam? His father's earlier words rushed back to him and he concentrated on the feeling of Sam which was still so strong. The feeling that seemed to be inside of him. The dream he'd just had echoed and bounced around in his skull. He turned towards his father, so incredulous that he had to pause to gather his thoughts.

"Dad?" His voice shook, "Is Sam's soul inside of me?"

Dean wasn't sure if the idea made him ecstatic or nauseous.

John stopped the car and killed the engine. Around them was an open field and the rain was just starting to slow. He turned to face his son and Dean could see beneath the pain and grief the resolve that had always made him believe his father could accomplish anything.

"Keep your brother safe, Dean."

* * *

Dean sat in the dark and watched his father work. There was a simple box made out of wood next to the hole that was steadily growing large; his father had somehow acquired it between Sam's death and their arrival at his place of burial. It had been unassembled, but his father had pulled out the large planks of wood and Dean had recognized what they were immediately. He'd had to throw up in the bushes twice.

Dean's shoulder was still too damaged to dig and he could only watch as his father worked with the single mindedness that defined him. Though the rain had stopped, he'd gone through the back trunk and pulled out a thick sweatshirt to layer over his ripped clothing. The air wasn't too chilly, though with the sun gone Dean had felt goose bumps cover his arms the moment he'd stepped out of the car. However, he didn't want to imagine what would happen if it started to pour and the mark was uncovered. He brought up a hand and let it rest on his chest.

Dean could feel it if he concentrated, the strings of light and color that seemed to be sewn through the mark and deep into his chest. It was an odd sensation that had him constantly reaching for the mark, as if he expected it to suddenly disappear. It seemed too flimsy, too frail in its current state. There were too many things that could happen, too many ways he could lose his brother again.

After Sam had reappeared, after Dean had realized that his dream was more than any dream could ever be, Dean had been riding the edge between elation and fear. He wanted to curl up and close his eyes, wanted to reach inside and speak with his brother.

But Sam was quiet.

He had asked if he was dead, seen through Dean's eyes his own corpse and then retreated so deeply into Dean that the older brother couldn't find him. He'd called several times, pushing the name through his head as if trolling for a fish. Sam hadn't responded, had remained silent as Dean had pleaded for him to say something, anything. But he was there, Dean knew that, just buried out of reach and too afraid to emerge at the moment.

Dean kept his eyes from the back seat; he didn't even want to chance Sam looking through his eyes again and seeing a dead body. His own dead body. It was a strange thought, that Sam could see what Dean saw, that Sam rested beneath his skin. When he'd looked out earlier, when he'd been close to the surface, Dean had felt it. That sensation was gone now, but Dean was waiting for it to return. Wherever Sam was hiding, he would be back.

Dean slouched over, resting most of his weight against the hood of the Impala, blankly watching his dad.

He remembered the realization that Sam wasn't okay, that Sam was drowning in his own blood while his insides ran out of him like melted butter. Dean could vaguely recall his father paging through his journal, could almost hear the words he'd spoken. What had his dad done? What spell, trickery, madness had he performed? And just what would they need to do to get his brother's body and spirit rejoined?

The thought scared him almost as much as his own resolve did. Sam would be whole again, even if Dean had to kick and scream and bleed to make it so.

"Dean."

Dean looked up, not noticing his father's approach. There was a shovel slung over his shoulder and dirt on his face. Behind him, the hole had nearly doubled in size.

"Give me a hand."

Dean kept his gaze on the night sky above him as he carried the cooling body of his brother.

Inside of him, Sam was silent.

* * *

AN: I would love to hear from you! Please review! : )


	2. Blame

Title: My Brother's Keeper

Chapter Two: Blame

Rating: R

Warnings: A bit of descriptive gore and language.

Description: Teenchesters! The Winchesters try to recover from a hunt gone wrong when the unexpected occurs. LimpSam! BigBrotherDean! DrivenPapaWinchester!

Author's Note: Once again I bow the most wonderful beta in the world, youthere. She pretty much rocks my socks off... Any mistakes that are there are all mine! Also, sorry this came out a bit later than I had intended... Real life got a bit crazy.

* * *

Sam watched the swirl of colors surrounding him in fascination. The hazy masses moved like large clouds through a dark sky, passing through and around one another as if each had their own personal breeze. They moved in lazy circles and straight lines that seemed to have no purpose, overlapping and creating an odd mosaic that jarred the eyes.

There were so many that he couldn't begin to count. Some were no larger than the size of a fist while others were as tall as his father. They were different sizes and shapes, some similar but each one unique he looked closer. A few of them were dense in color, the shades eye catching in intensity. Others were like puffs of smoke, cobweb thin and shimmering eerily.

He hid between dark streaks of blue and several swirls of purple and mauve, doing his best to keep from touching them. The world between the colors was black empty space. Sam rested in those areas, slipped through the cold darkness and tried to remind himself that he had no body to feel the chill.

The space he rested in now was congested, but quiet enough that he could keep still and be out of the way. It had taken him a while to find it; to make sense of the alien world he was now a part of.

After he'd first woken up the darkness had been terrifying, suffocating. He'd had no legs to run, no eyes to blink, no lungs to breathe.

There had been a moment before, where Dean had been there and the sky had been red and his body had been numb and he had been dying. Sam knew that, could remember it now with a clarity he hadn't experienced at the time. He could remember the coolness of his skin, the way he'd trembled as he'd slowly drifted away. He knew that he hadn't been able to hear well, that his father had been frantic and Dean had looked like an angel.

He could remember the taste of blood too, warm and metallic, as he'd choked on it and his vision had grown hazy. His chest had stuttered, his heart had skipped, and his lungs had refused to draw air. The world had grown darker and darker, black spots slowly blurring out the worried face of Dean. It had been like a nightmare, a scene out of a horror movie that his brother would laugh at for the bad acting and unrealistic looking blood.

After that there was a moment of nothing, a memory that hung just out of reach. Sam could feel it; a skip in his thoughts as if he'd been concussed and time had gone missing. He only remembered a sensation of floating, a bone deep chill and a chorus of voices, whose words he couldn't decipher. It teased the edges of his mind, remaining unfocused no matter how hard he concentrated.

Then he'd been in the parking lot again, the sun once more causing the sky to bleed red and purple. The Impala had been parked behind him and for a second Sam had wondered if he really had dreamed the whole thing. But then Dean had appeared out of thin air, shimmering into existence like a mirage. The world around his brother had rolled as he'd moved, as if the ground below was water, and Sam hadn't been able wrap his mind around what was real and what was not.

He hadn't been able to help the smile that he'd flashed at his brother's appearance, couldn't help clinging to Dean as if he were years younger. He'd trusted his brother to help, to explain just what was happening, to clear the confusion he had been drowning in.

But the Dean in the mirage parking lot had been too much like the Dean that had knelt over him and begged him to stay. Broken and afraid and in pain.

Sam knew now that there was nothing his brother could fix, no easy solution.

Next to him, a cloud slowly passed, the colors inside swirling in some sort of pattern he couldn't decipher. It wavered as if it was going to change direction and he tried to make himself as small as possible.

Sam had accidently brushed against several of the colorful spots before and memories had filtered through and played out in front of his eyes like a movie. Sam had watched a burger get consumed, seen Dean's reflection as he'd brushed his teeth and looked on as sun kissed hands had tightened caps and shut the hood of the Impala. It was unnerving, the idea that the sensations he'd felt were what his brother had experienced at the time.

In the memories he could feel the heat of the sun, smell the open fields, taste the chocolate in a candy bar. In the quiet darkness there was nothing to smell, touch or taste, nothing to experience other than the slight cold and never ending darkness. However, tempting as it was to stay in Dean's memories, to clutch at those sensations that he was already starting to forget, Sam couldn't. Seeing his brother's memories felt like an intrusion, a violation and so, he didn't know what else to do but live in the blackness in between.

He was certain Dean had to be pissed. After all, Sam had seen his own body, knew that it was rotting somewhere. Sam's gangly limbs couldn't hold his soul any longer and now Dean was stuck with him. He was some sort of ghost, something like the things they hunted. Just the thought made him feel ill. Wishing he was dead seemed pretty pointless, but for a moment he wished that he hadn't woken up.

Pulling himself from the morose thought, Sam glanced down at where his body should have been.

He focused and the barest outlines of his arms and legs began to appear, so shimmery and pale in the darkness that he had to squint to see them. They seemed like the lines of a constellation, impossible to see unless you knew exactly what you were looking for. It was as if he'd been a part of a Greek tragedy, a boy who'd perished and then been cast into the night sky as a warning for others and a guide to the lost. He was insubstantial, a mere reminder of what happened when a person succumbed to an unstoppable destiny.

Sam pushed harder and ribbons shimmered into existence, spooling out of his chest and into the abyss around him. For several moments, he just watched them move in some unfamiliar pattern. They were white and just slightly brighter than the bare outline that allowed Sam to almost feel like a person.

While the outline made him feel real, however, he preferred the ribbons of light out of view. It was too strange for him to comprehend, too bizarre to focus on. There were dozens of them, most only a couple of inches wide, lighting up the darkness around him like iridescent paint on a street sign. They pulled at his chest, not tightly, but enough so that he could feel how deeply they were connected. Even when they were invisible he could still feel them, knew that whatever they were and however they were attached to his surroundings, they kept him with Dean.

He let his concentration fade until he could no longer see the white lines of his clenched finger tips or the strands of hair that teased his peripheral vision. The white ribbons followed, fading out of sight and leaving spots of color as his eyes adjusted. Folding himself inward, he tried to close his eyes, to escape the strange reality around him.

It helped to pretend that he was just in a darkened room, that they were resting between hunts and Dean was just in the next room, talking on the phone or flipping through TV channels. When Sam strained his ears he could hear the sound of his brother's voice faintly, as if they were in an apartment and Dean was just behind a wall.

In fact, after the odd dream encounter with his brother Sam had searched in confusion, traveling between the bright colors, certain that at any moment Dean would appear. There was no way that Dean would leave him alone in such a place, no way that he wouldn't find Sam. And that had buoyed Sam for awhile, had made him dodge between memories and race until his nonexistent body had ached.

But there was nothing but never ending blackness, no adjoining rooms or windows or steps or doors. There wasn't even a slight breeze or sunshine or the scent of rain.

When he had finally managed to get closer to Dean's voice, the darkness had lightened and the small change had his vision aching. Sam had been certain that he had found the way out, that any moment he would be rescued.

It was in that in between space that Sam had stumbled into Dean, that Sam had seen his own body.

A sudden ache spread through his chest and Sam brought up what felt like a hand to cover it. It had been a while since he'd last spoken with Dean and for a moment he wondered if his brother was trying to contact him. The memories around him remained on their paths, seemingly unaffected by whatever Sam was feeling. Time was strange inside of Dean's mind and Sam wasn't sure if moments, hours, or even weeks had passed since he'd seen his own body and retreated. But Sam hadn't been ready then, wasn't ready even now, to talk to his brother again.

How could he apologize for not fighting back harder? For bleeding out and giving up and dying? How could he possibly face his brother again after what had happened? After what he'd become?

The aching slowly started to burn and he hissed at the discomfort. He rubbed at it, trying to will the pain away. Even if Dean was desperate to see him, he would never cause him pain. Sam wasn't even sure Dean could find him like this.

As the pain grew his outline appeared again, this time radiating a light so bright it hurt to look at. Seconds later the ribbons spilled from his chest, pulled taut and trembling from the strain. He groaned, curling up so that he rested on what felt like his hands and knees. It hurt like someone was hacking at his chest with a dull tool and had taken a cheese grater to his skin. He watched blankly as the ribbons changed colors, a deep dark red traveling up them until the white had completely disappeared.

Afraid, Sam forced himself to move closer to where he knew he could contact his brother, to maneuver around the memories toward where the dark was less black. As the pain increased, everything around him grew unfocused and Sam tried desperately to figure out what could possibly be happening. This seemed impossible. He no longer had a body to feel pain. He should be nothing but a memory, nothing but a pile of ash.

He wondered for a moment if they were burning his body, if these were the final moments before he was set free. It was an odd thought, one that had him clenching his fingers and fighting back sobs. He wasn't even sure they hadn't already burned him, if he'd been cremated or buried or pushed out into the ocean like a Viking. He had seen his body for only a moment before he'd retreated, escaping as far back as he could into his brother's mind.

Trembling, he stopped near what he was beginning to recognize as the front of Dean's mind, where new memories were formed and Sam could communicate easily with his brother. He paused between two recent memories that were dark red with swirls of grey and green. They were large, images moving between the colors like a movie. He could see a dirt road, heavily wooded on either side. There was rain hitting the windshield and the lights of the Impala cast long shadows.

He pulled his eyes away, afraid that he would be tempted to look more closely, and concentrated on Dean.

The pain increased exponentially, until it took all of his energy to keep from crying out.

_Dean?_

He spoke aloud though he had no vocal cords to use or a mouth to move. He tried to remember just how he'd managed to communicate with his brother before, concentrated on the memory of the two of them speaking. But it had happened too quickly, him talking and then fleeing. Sam didn't know what he had done.

It didn't matter though. In the state he was in now he had no idea what was happening to Dean, whether or not his brother was okay. Something was wrong and he needed to know if his family was safe, if his brother was all right. He needed to know if he was finally going to be laid to rest, if he had to say how sorry he was before he disappeared for good.

_Sammy?_

A bright light appeared just beyond the memories and Sam staggered towards it. The sight was somehow familiar though how he'd seen it before, he didn't remember. His brother's voice sounded again and Sam instinctively moved closer to it and into the light. Around him, the brightness was so intense it seemed to burn through him, so hot it seemed it would melt him down.

He felt as if he'd walked into a star.

The pain intensified and Sam stumbled and fell, crying out at the agony traveling through him. It felt like razor blades were moving beneath his skin and three ribbons snapped. The pain was enough that he nearly blacked out; it felt as if someone had ripped his arm off.

_Sammy, are you okay? What's going on?_

Sam gritted his teeth to keep from crying out again and crawled closer to Dean's voice. It echoed around him in the light, washed over him like a wave.

_It hurts._

He spoke before he could think about it, his voice tight and edged with tears. In the parking lot the pain hadn't seemed to exist at all, he'd seemed to somehow float above it, separated enough that it had been nothing more than a side note. Now, pain throbbed and burned like a thousand paper cuts. He moved even closer to the light, curling up and feeling the realness that seemed to seep from it. Unlike the darkness, in this light he could almost taste the sun, could nearly feel grass between his toes, could smell a rainstorm on the horizon.

_Sammy! Sammy! Sammy!_

His brother's voice echoed with fear and Sam tried to push the pain away and answer. His voice was weak and almost unintelligible.

_Dean? What's happening?_

"Dude, you alright?" A strange voice cut in, sounding as if they were on the other end of a phone line. Sam didn't recognize it; the man's words were rough and spoken with an accent that sounded southern.

Through the pain, Sam watched the light around him part, as if someone were pulling back heavy curtains, grainy colors and shapes flickering into existence. Feeling as if he'd tumbled down Alice's rabbit hole, Sam trembled and wildly searched for Dean. He focused his eyes, unsure of what he was seeing for a moment, but then it clicked.

He wouldn't be able to see his brother no matter how hard he searched; the eyes that he stared through weren't his own. He wouldn't ever see Dean again, unless it was in a mirror or in the reflection on a window. It was like when he'd seen his body, when he'd blinked and the back seat of the Impala had swam into focus.

The room Dean was in was musty and old, the smell so strong it had Sam's stomach lurching. The walls were covered in posters, the paint beneath them worn and flat, and the floor looked like it hadn't been washed in ages. There was an old broom in one corner and a stack of records on a nearby table. An odd buzzing filled his ears and Sam blinked at the unknown noise.

Using his brother's peripheral vision, Sam unthinkingly glanced down and felt nausea rise.

The voice he'd heard belonged to a man with spiky hair and more piercings than Sam could count. There was a cross tattooed next to his left eye and dark eyeliner lining both of them. He looked like the punks that Dean would usually ridicule, the ones who acted so tough but cried at the first sign of real trouble. The man leaned in close to his brother, his gaze on Dean's chest.

"Just do it." His brother's voice was strained.

From Dean's gaze, Sam could just make out the reddened skin and the tattoo gun the guy held. There was an outline on his brother's chest that was drawn in wide streaks of brown red. The lines were unsteady, certain points straight while others looked like they'd been drawn with a shaky hand. Half of the pattern had already been outlined in thick black lines. His brother took a breath in through his nose and Sam could smell blood.

_Sammy?_

His brother's voice asked uncertainly as the needle started up again. The pain increased with it and Sam hissed and clutched at his chest. He could hear the sound of the machine as it worked, could feel as the needle seemed to punch right through him. Sam felt as if he were slipping, as if the ribbons would keep snapping until there were none left.

The memory of the other place, the space between that he'd been caught in for a moment seemed to reach for him with a gaping grin.

_Make it stop. It hurts._

Sam struggled to communicate, to keep the words coming when all he wanted to do was cry. He clutched his frame and cried out unwillingly, tempted to move away from the light and pain but afraid to step away from his brother. If he was going to be torn away, if this was it, then he wanted Dean to be there when it happened.

He tried to rally himself, to say the few things that he needed to before it was over, but the words seemed to slip away. There was only the pain, eating away at him, inside and out.

His brother cursed, before the picture in front of Sam grew dark. The pain was still there but, around him, Dean's presence grew so strong he could have sworn his brother was crouching next to him. He concentrated on that, on the smell of oil and leather and the warmth that seemed to emanate from a body he knew wasn't there.

_It's okay Sammy. It's okay._

Sam listened to the words and trembled as Dean seemed to envelop him. He felt like a kid again, so small that Dean could pick him up and hold him close. His brother's presence was everywhere and the pain and noise receded as the sensation of Dean seemed to permeate everything. He slumped into the warmth surrounding him, let his brother wrap around him.

With Dean so close, Sam was almost certain he wouldn't dissolve, wouldn't drift away until there was nothing left of him. The pain was still there, still vibrating beneath his skin and eating its way through his chest. He felt as if there was nothing but rubber bands holding him together. Whatever the tattoo artist was doing to Dean, it was no normal tattoo. It was killing Sam and this time there was no blessed numbness.

His brother grew impossibly closer and the pain slowly began to recede. He'd felt it for so long now that the sudden lack of it had him feeling disconnected. Sam was certain that if he had hands they would be clutching to Dean for dear life.

_What's happening?_

Sam's words were sluggish, a feeling of exhaustion flooding his limbs.

_We're just making sure you stay put._

He had been certain that in his new state he wouldn't sleep. After all, Sam didn't have a body any longer. Sam didn't need food, didn't need oxygen or water, or rest. Now, he wasn't so sure. He felt as if he'd stayed up with his brother all night and watched a movie marathon. He could barely think straight and the feeling of being embraced was enough to have him completely relax.

When he'd been in the back of Dean's mind, waiting among old memories and trying to sort through everything, Sam had been a mess of emotions. He could still feel them, the pain and mental anguish that had made him feel insignificant. The knowledge of his father's disappointment, the guilt over how he'd gotten his brother hurt. But now Dean was there, next to him and supporting him.

Dean always made everything okay.

Sam thought of the tattoo he'd seen through his brother's eyes and tried to put the pieces together.

He'd seen himself in the back seat of the Impala, had distantly recognized the hair, hands, and clothes. It had seemed oddly familiar, a corpse in the back seat, a corpse that looked like his mirror image.

But how it had happened, he couldn't quite figure out. The attack was clear, every detail sharp and vivid and oddly emotionless. How he'd gone from dying to dead to a ghost inside his brother was where the confusion lay. He could vaguely remember his father being there when he'd been numb and cold and the sky had been on fire above him.

_Rest Sammy. Rest._

Sam's muddled thoughts skipped as his brother's words seemed to whisper themselves against his ear. He let himself drift away, not quite asleep but no longer awake. He wondered distantly if this was sleep for him now, if there was nothing but a long stretch of barely existing in front of him. He wondered if Dean really did hate him.

Sam slowly drifted away.

* * *

John rested his head against the worn wall of the tattoo parlor and kept his eyes trained on his oldest son. Fatigue had long ago turned to exhaustion and as the nightmarish hours slipped by, he had slowly lost all sense of time. Outside the shop, the sun was either just beginning to rise or nearly finished setting and he was thankful for the shadowy haze that covered the sky. The gloomy atmosphere suited his mood perfectly.

It didn't seem right that the sun could shine after everything that had happened, that the world could continue on when Sam was no longer in it.

He blinked, the sandy feeling in his eyes so strong he rubbed at the grit without thinking. Along his jaw, a beard was starting to appear and the hair on his head was a wild mess of dirt and blood.

Glancing down at his bedraggled form, John was just thankful that the shop was empty. He hadn't bothered to change before they'd stumbled into town and his clothes were stiff from the amount of blood and grime they had accumulated. Thankfully, the lights were poor enough that the blood stains almost looked like dirt stains, and the place was seedy looking, anyway.

John resisted the urge to wipe his hands on his filthy pants. Though he had been able to get the fingers mostly clean, he could feel the blood of his youngest still stuck under his fingernails and caught in the deep grooves of his palms. It had gotten everywhere, covering him like a wet blanket so that every movement was tight and each breath was nearly impossible.

He was glad that it had been raining, even if had made digging nearly impossible. The spatters of red that had decorated the Impala had been washed away and the tires were covered in a layer of dirt so thick the red beneath the crud was no longer visible.

In his back pocket the journal burned, a constant reminder of what he had done and where his youngest now was. John fought the urge to page through it and reread every line. There were bloody fingerprints on the front and back of it, pages inside had been stained or torn.

His stomach churned with self loathing and for the hundredth time he wondered if he'd made the right decision. He hadn't known it was possible to be so frantic, hadn't felt that sort of desperation for years. It had been as if he was in Lawrence again, as if Mary was dying and Sammy was crying and the fire was so hot it burned like a furnace around them.

Even that had seemed different however, the circumstances in many ways like night and day. He hadn't been able to save his wife, hadn't had the knowledge or tools to even attempt to fight what they had been up against. Sammy though? It should have been so easy for John, after everything he had learned, everything he had fought for. It should have been nothing to rescue his son from the brink of death.

What was the point otherwise? Why else had his family lived out of hotels and on the road for so long if not to gain the information that would protect them?

He had been certain that the entire hunt was a bust anyway, that after another day or two of letting Dean rest and Sam stew, the three of them would get back on the road. He had already picked out the next hunt, an easy haunting in northern Nebraska that would let Dean ease back into things and give Sam a chance to prove himself.

But Sam had bled and choked and gasped and grown cold as John frantically paged through the knowledge he'd managed to accumulate. There had been no chance for the two of them to make up. For him to get over his worry and anger and tell his youngest that it would get better with time, that he would get better with training and that John had been more scared than angry. That he just wanted his sons to be the best they could be. That long after John was gone the two of them would each be all the other one had.

Instead, he had scanned the journal, rushed through the scraps of knowledge he'd been able to gather, and realized how little power he actually had. How little he was able to do to protect the only people he cared for.

When he'd finally needed again to save someone important to him John had choked like a novice. There was no 'Fix Sam' spell, no incantation or Latin phrase to stitch Sam's flesh back together and replenish his blood. It had been sheer luck that he'd managed to do what he had, a note tucked behind a note of a rumored curse that John had thought about researching whenever he had free time.

Now his youngest was cursed, simultaneously buried in the ground and attached to Dean's soul. John told himself that it was better than the alternative, told himself that Dean needed his brother like he needed air.

If Sam had died, if he had truly passed over, John had no idea what his oldest would do. Dean and Sam were two halves of the same whole. The thought of losing one child felt unbearable; the idea of losing two was physically sickening. John was selfish enough to know that without Sam or Dean he couldn't keep going.

John glanced at his oldest, the buzz of the needle dimly registering in his mind. Even under the poor lighting, Dean looked awful. John hadn't even tried to change his son out of his clothes and there was no dirt to hide the rust colors he was coated in. The knees on his jeans were stiff from the blood he'd knelt in, caked so thickly that John knew there was no chance of saving them.

But the chance of the mark smearing, of his youngest son truly slipping away when John had barely been able to hold onto him, was horrifying enough that he had simply not cared what the locals might think about the dried blood.

Dean had said nothing about it, had been focused on something John couldn't see since they had buried Sam.

The tattoo artist occasionally shot Dean a look, as if waiting for him to grimace in pain or fidget in impatience. Dean's brow was furrowed, his entire body still. There was a look in his eyes that John was starting to recognize, a tilt to his head as if he were listening to someone.

"Dude, are you alright?"

Dean's eyes barely flickered to the other man.

"Just do it."

John wondered what his youngest was saying, how Sammy was handling the disturbing events that had happened. The notes he had on the curse were fragmented and muddled and John hoped that they had been enough to firmly attach Sam's soul. He wanted Sam to be able to communicate, to be a separate entity within Dean. And he needed Sam sane, needed to know that he was still Sam. If that wasn't true, if the curse had worked in a way it wasn't meant to and his youngest was damaged, John wasn't certain what he'd do.

A slight shudder worked its way down Dean's shoulders and back and he hung his head forward as if holding it up was too much effort. John watched Dean's eyes close and from his vantage point he could see that his son's teeth were clenched.

The tattoo hadn't been John's idea. From the moment Dean had been aware of the curse, he had been focused on only two things: keeping Sam from slipping away again and finding a way to put him back into his body. The mark made in blood would fade with time, would get rubbed off or sweated away no matter how hard Dean fought to keep it there. When John had told him he wasn't sure how long it would take to fix Sam, Dean had gone quiet and stared at the dried blood on his chest.

"We need to make this permanent. We need to keep Sam here."

John tried not to remember the look on his oldest son's face. The desperate determination reminded him too much of himself.

The artist continued to work, dark lines being written over red ones. The man had raised an eyebrow when they'd asked him to work directly over the drawing, had frowned for a moment before John waved an extra fifty in front of him. John didn't have the time to search out another shady artist that wouldn't blink at their appearance.

Dean had said nothing as they'd negotiated, just crossed his arms over his chest and stared blankly at the wall. While Dean knew that Sam was really with him, even John could admit how hard it had been to bury the youngest member of their family. Sam's body had been a mess of barely pieced together flesh in a pine box. While John had been putting the shovel away Dean had fashioned a cross out of sticks and fishing line to mark the spot. He had only moved away when the rain started again, large droplets forcing him back into the Impala.

John watched the tattoo artist finish a large swooping line and let a bit of tension seep out of his shoulders. He hadn't told Dean, but he had been almost certain the marking wouldn't work. He hadn't seen why it wouldn't, the ink and the blood maintaining the connection, but magic was a tricky thing and John was used to things going wrong.

After what seemed an eternity the artist straightened up and the buzz of the machine grew silent. Taking off his gloves, he gave Dean a look before stepping away. Dean remained unmoving, the black ink standing out sharply on his reddened skin. The line of bruises covering his chest and shoulder matched the dark circles beneath his eyes.

Dean looked young, too young to have such a heavy weight on his shoulders.

"Hey." John kept his voice quiet. His oldest blinked as if coming out of a deep sleep, eyes going down to the new mark. He brought up a blood stained hand as if to touch it and John started forward and grabbed at the limb. "Don't touch it, it could get infected."

Dean nodded numbly. His words were so quiet John could barely hear them.

"Sammy didn't like that."

John swallowed thickly at his youngest's name, his mind trying to wrap around what Dean had said, "What?"

Dean stood stiffly, grabbing a bit of gauze off the work station and gently fixing it on top of the tattoo. Then he just stared at the white rectangle, bringing up his hand again and resting it on top. His eyes closed and he swayed with exhaustion.

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes shot open and he shook his head as if waking from a daze. He picked up his discarded shirt from a nearby chair but didn't put it on. John didn't blame him, it was beyond ruined. Dean tucked the shirt under his arm and John kept a close eye on him as they left the shop.

"Sam could feel the tattoo being done." Dean slid into the car and kept his eyes on the dash in front of him. John grabbed a duffle bag out of the trunk as he rounded the car and threw a fresh t-shirt at his son.

He opened his mouth to ask a question but Dean beat him to it.

"He doesn't have a body but I could feel how much pain he was in. It was awful." Dean shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. "I thought I was going to lose him again."

John's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He kept his eyes off his son and spoke a lie he was determined to make a truth.

"I can fix this. We'll get Sam back, I promise."

Next to him, Dean's head slid down onto his shoulder, exhaustion finally catching up with him and bringing him to somewhere halfway between awake and asleep. They'd made it one step; they could pull their feet out of the drying concrete and take another.

Already, he had a few ideas, people he needed to speak with. He had favors he was owed and money stashed away that would convince others to help.

The motel wasn't as cheap as John usually went with but the lure of soft beds and quiet neighbors was strong enough to make him pay the extra twenty. His oldest deserved a good night's rest and John didn't want to think of Dean mourning in some run down shit hole. Because Dean was mourning, even if Sam wasn't truly gone. Waves of despair were practically rolling off of him even as he fought to keep it together.

John grabbed the keys to the room and glanced at the pamphlets haphazardly stuck in a nearby display. He read the name of the town and tried to remember it. He didn't know how they'd gotten there or how far it was exactly from Sam's grave.

Sam's grave.

The words chilled John to the bone.

Getting Dean into the room wasn't easy; he was dead on his feet and couldn't seem to find the energy to do much more than stumble.

"Dean?" John maneuvered his son through the room doorway and into the bathroom. Even if he was so tired it hurt, John knew that Dean wouldn't want to sleep covered in Sam's blood. John could feel it against his own skin, itching as if it were corroding his skin. "Hey, you wanna shower?"

He propped Dean on the toilet and started the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go. The noise seemed to finally wake Dean and he looked at John as if the older man were crazy.

"Dude, I can bathe myself." John nodded, thankful that his son hadn't slid back into the shock he'd gone into immediately after Sam's death.

He tried not to remember the way his youngest had said similar words, three years old with arms crossed and a stubborn look on his face. He tried not to think about how Sam, as a child, had giggled and laughed when Dean had tickled him before bed or the way his face would light up when John would ask him about a school project or a test.

"Careful of the tattoo."

Dean didn't respond, his eyes skittering away even as his hand automatically reached up and covered it.

After getting Dean clothes to change into, John stiffly made his way to the desk, unwilling to sit on one of the beds when he was so filthy. Around him, the room was quiet and clean; there was a new television on a wood dresser and an air conditioner that worked soundlessly. The comforters were floral and the curtains were thick enough to shut out any outside light.

Pulling the journal from his back pocket, he turned on one of the desk lamps and blinked at the bright artificial light. Under the yellow glow his hands looked like they belonged to an eighty year old man.

He flipped the journal open to the back, to the note he'd crammed back into it as soon as the curse had been cast. There was a tear on the bottom of the single page and sections of it were so stained with blood they were unreadable. Rubbing at his eyes, he looked through what little information he had while his son showered.

That it was a witchcraft was enough to curl his lip. A coven had supposedly used it to bind the souls of their enemies to inanimate objects. He'd tried to do that first, bind Sam to the necklace Dean wore or even to the journal itself, but Sam had already been gone and it had been like fighting the tide. His son's soul had slipped through his fingers like water and John had scrambled and tried something just so he could tell his oldest he had done all that he could.

But the moment he'd finished the incantation he had felt it; felt Sam become a part of Dean.

The body on the ground had been an empty shell, eyes already starting to glaze over, but Dean hadn't seen that. He had crowded close, hands desperately clutching at his brother. He had called for Sam, begged for him to stay. For Dean, Sam dying simply hadn't been an option. How could he die when he had both a father and an older brother looking out for him?

John's littlest, who had been growing so fast his pants were always too short and his shoes too tight. Sammy, who had a heart that bled, who sobbed at the end of Bambi as a child and still had nightmares about monsters under the bed. Sam, who was mouthy and bratty and funny, was gone.

John ignored the tightening in his chest, blinked back the tears he knew were hiding just beneath the surface. He didn't have the time to cry, didn't have the time to mourn. Not when Dean was counting on him to make things right, when Sam needed him to save him. Not when John could feel the weight of his own failure about to crush him.

He read the notes backwards and forwards until he had the entire half page of writing memorized. The noise of the shower stopped and he gently tucked the note back in place and the journal out of sight. Dean didn't need any more reminders right now.

Moments later Dean emerged from the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his hair and staring forward like he was miles away. It was a look that John had already started to watch for.

"How is Sam?"

Dean sat on the edge of one of the beds, throwing his towel onto the dresser and giving John a look.

"He's okay. He was stirring but he's resting now."

John toed off his boots as Dean pulled back the comforter and sprawled out on the bed. His eyes grew far away again and John let himself watch for several moments. Even with the shower less than ten feet away, he wasn't certain he could let his guard down yet. He had been on edge for so long that the thought of coming down seemed impossible.

"So, you two can communicate?"

Dean's shoulders tensed, his eyes focusing inward for a moment before turning back to John.

"Yeah." He turned onto his side, his back to John, as he pulled the blankets up onto his shoulders. The bed looked empty and John wondered if it felt empty to Dean.

"You got this, right Dad?"

John stood. "Yeah, I got this."

He opened his mouth again, determined for a moment to ask more about Sam. John wanted to hear it from Dean, that he had talked to Sam and that his youngest was whole. He wanted to know how he was mentally, what he was aware of. That he didn't blame his father for failing him, that he didn't hate his father for trapping him in a half life.

John could hear his son's breath even out, feel the exhaustion radiating from him. He sighed, "Get some rest Dean."

The lights in the bathroom were brighter than he remembered and the sound of the shower made it impossible to listen as Dean slept in the other room. He had planned on jumping in and out, taking the fastest shower possible, but stood beneath the spray until his skin was flushed a dull red.

John used all the soap, finished off the shampoo, conditioner, and the complimentary body wash. Afterwards, he dried his hair and stared at his hands.

There was still blood under the fingernails.


	3. Words Unsaid

**Title:** My Brother's Keeper

**Chapter Three:** Words Unsaid

**Rating**: R

**Warnings**: A bit of descriptive gore and language.

**Description:** Teenchesters! The Winchesters try to recover from a hunt gone wrong when the unexpected occurs. LimpSam! BigBrotherDean! DrivenPapaWinchester!

**Author's Note**: Again, all I can do is thank youthere for all that she does for me. You are awesome.

* * *

Dean stared blankly at the plate in front of him, the sight of runny eggs and buttered toast making his stomach twist. He'd already taken a few bites and they sat uncomfortably at the back of his throat, threatening to make an unwanted reappearance. He let his fork drag through the yolks and swallowed back the taste of bile that flooded his mouth. Even the bacon smelled unappetizing and he pushed the plate away with a sigh.

Around him the diner was quiet. It was too early for the morning crowd and there wasn't even a radio on for background noise. Two older gentlemen were stooped over the counter, hats pulled low as they drank coffee and read newspapers. Everything about them screamed 'small town', from their worn out jeans to the half empty pot of coffee between them.

Early morning light filtered through large windows, casting long shadows as the sun slowly rose. It was cool outside but the direct sunlight was hot enough Dean could feel sweat begin to break out along his jaw. It was bright, too, cutting across his vision and making dark spots appear.

When he'd first taken a seat the sun had been nothing more than a shade of purple on the horizon. At that time the diner had been empty, the fishbowl windows creating a space that had felt both open and quiet. Now, the large windows made it impossible for him to escape the heat of the sun

Not that he would even try – Sam loved the warmth.

The place smelled like grease, a scent that could have belonged to dozens of other stops his family had eaten at. The booths were faded and old and what he'd eaten of his breakfast had been over salted and rubbery. The countertops were dingy and scratched and the paper menus stained.

A lone waitress walked across the chipped linoleum, over fifty and wearing heavy eye makeup. She popped her gum loudly before wandering back into the kitchen. She hadn't smiled at him while taking his order, just thrown him a dirty look when he'd walked in. Dean knew he looked a mess; he hadn't bothered to shave and had thrown on the first pair of jeans and shirt he'd pulled out of his bag.

Outside, the parking lot was empty, the motel clearly visible across the road.

Dean had thought the change in scenery would do him good. The walls had been closing in on him the last three weeks; he felt as if he were suffocating. At first he had refused to leave their hotel, refused to eat or sleep until they had a solid lead on how to fix Sam. Then hours had turned into days and then weeks. Dean had been forced to realize that, dedicated as his father was, there was no solution in sight.

And then their father had left four days ago, a lead two states away having him picking up and leaving Dean to hold down the fort. Dean had wanted to go, sitting in the motel room day after day was a kind of torture he'd never experienced before. He had spent too much of his life traveling, picking up and driving after spending only days and sometimes even just hours in a place. He was a person of action, while his brother was always cautious and his father hovered somewhere between the two qualities.

His dad had been adamant, however, and they'd argued about it until Dean had been blue in the face. He hadn't let up until his younger brother's fearful, wobbly voice had echoed in his head, asking what was wrong. Sam had been, and still was, dealing with enough shit. Dean wasn't going to put him through any unnecessary family drama.

So he'd stayed cooped up in the crap motel they'd moved to a week ago, playing the good son while his father met a friend of a friend of a friend.

Dean had spent hours looking through notes he'd already read hundreds of times, flipping through books he'd already scoured. He'd paced the room and fiddled with the air conditioner and fitfully slept. It was clear that they had no real information, nothing that could revive a corpse and reattach a soul.

Sam only emerged occasionally, speaking quietly with Dean about anything but what had happened. Dean on the other hand spoke almost continuously to his brother. His inner monologue now peppered with '_Isn't that odd Sam?_' or _'Did I tell you about the time…' _Sam rarely answered but Dean was certain that he was listening. The only thoughts he kept to himself were the ones about Sam's body, Sam's grave, and the daily struggle Dean went through to get out of bed.

That morning he'd woken up and felt as if a weight were crushing him, as if the four walls of the motel room were mocking him. Dad had called the day before and Dean had heard the frustration in his voice. Whatever he had found out wasn't good. But his Dad wasn't talking and he was going to be gone a few more days, checking a few other things he hadn't yet.

At the same time, Sam hadn't said anything to him in over a day and Dean had to stop himself from begging. His younger brother was still uncertain, still adjusting. Sam rested most of the time and when he was conscious he seemed to be disconnected, trying to get a grip on everything that had happened. He bounced between acting far younger than he was, clinging and needing comfort, or removing himself emotionally and hiding so deep inside Dean's mind that he was impossible to find. He didn't blame Sam but it was hard, having his brother so impossibly close and yet so far away.

Dean was lonely.

He had barely slept the night before and had hoped a good cup of coffee and some food would perk him up. Instead of feeling better, though, the diner just made his stomach churn and his heart race. He wanted his brother next to him, his father across from them.

Unthinkingly, he brought a hand up to his chest, letting it rest on the tattoo hidden under his shirt. It had finally finished healing, the lines dark and uneven in places. The thing was ugly, the wide swoops and straight marks messy looking. It tingled beneath his fingers and he closed his eyes against his crummy surroundings. It felt as if Sam were sitting right next to him.

Dean opened his eyes again and let out a breath. Pulling a few crumpled bills out of his pocket, he threw them on the table and stood up.

_Guess I wasn't so hungry, was I Sammy. Even if I _am_ eating for two. _

He waited for a moment, certain that the words would earn him a chuckle. There was a slight flicker, as if Sam had moved closer, but it disappeared almost immediately. Dean waited a moment longer, tasting his heart in his throat, but Sam stayed hidden.

He stumbled out into the sun and slight breeze and debated going back to the motel. Dean paused only for a moment, however, before passing it by and heading towards Main Street. While this town was slightly larger than the one they'd been in before, it was still painfully small. This early in the morning almost everything was closed and the streets were empty of both vehicles and people.

He'd done a little bit of exploring as the days had past but the truth was that there was nothing to see in this town. The places he stopped at were ones he thought Sam would enjoy, a park with a stream and an old library in the center of town. Sam had come forward the first time he'd visited both, emanating happiness as the two of them had chatted.

Dean meandered towards the park, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and keeping his head down against the wind.

The park was too small to gather any real visitors, it had only a few mismatched benches lining a stream and a small barbecue pit that looked like it hadn't been used in years. It was just far enough off Main Street that even when there were cars he couldn't hear them. It smelled like fresh grass and rainwater and brought up half-forgotten memories of playing in a backyard with his father while his mother looked on. Moving around several trees, he perched on the farthest bench and rested his elbows on his knees.

_This is the life, right Sam?_

The sound of running water filled his ears and he listened carefully in case Sam's voice was partially blocked by the noise. Instead he heard several birds chirping and a small animal moving through the trees.

Dean let his mind go blank, trying to enjoy the moment. It was places like this that he and Sam had loved to explore on their down time. Unintentionally, his leg began to bounce. There was nothing left to look at in the motel room but outside it he felt as if he were doing nothing. Without Sam next to him or speaking with him the place didn't feel nearly as magical. He skipped a couple of stones, waiting on the offhand chance Sam did decide to come out.

Wherever his dad was, he wasn't being quick enough. There were a lot of people he could contact. People who knew people who knew others. Someone had to know how to fix his brother. He tried to imagine having Sam locked inside of him for years, tried to picture holidays and birthdays with Sam stuck somewhere between there and gone.

"_I like it here."_

_Dean started, head turning automatically towards the familiar voice. Next to him sat Sam, staring out over the small stream. His hair was as shaggy as Dean remembered it and he wore the clothing he'd been buried in. The sunlight shone through the trees, bright patches of it dotting Sam's body. A chilly breeze blew and Sam shut his eyes and seemed to breathe it in._

_Dean swallowed, realizing he must have dozed off. _

"_I know." He moved one of his shoulders so that it brushed up against his brother. It felt real, as if Sam were right next to him. The younger brother did nothing at the motion, glancing at Dean for only a moment before his eyes went back to the stream._

"_I always wondered what it would be like to grow up in the country. I wanted a backyard full of trees."_

_Dean listened, basking in the sound of his brother's voice._

_He too, wished that had been possible for Sam, that he had grown up in a big farm house with fields on one side and trees on the other. Sam should have had a dog named 'Boo,' 'Fitzgerald,' or 'Holden.' He should have spent days making prints of leaves and catching bugs, should have roasted marshmallows over a fire during the hottest part of summer._

"_Do you ever wonder if there are different places like this place? Different Deans and Sams?"_

_Dean shifted his weight, unsettled by the sudden turn in their conversation. _

"_I don't know, maybe."_

_The truth was that Dean didn't spend a lot of time thinking about 'what ifs'. He had to keep Sam safe, had to learn to be the best hunter he could. He spent his free moments training, either physically with his father and brother or mentally by reading up on different monsters his father had come into contact with. The period in his life where he could daydream, had long passed. _

"_I sometimes think that maybe one Sam and one Dean live in that kind of place." Sam's gaze shifted to his hands, "With trees and streams and stuff. Pretty stupid, right?"_

_Dean could picture it and around him the dream world shimmered until, just beyond the stream, a worn path appeared. He knew without following it that it led to an old house, one with chipped blue paint on the outside and comfortable furniture on the inside. There was a classic car in the dirt driveway and a dog sleeping in the backyard._

"_No, not stupid."_

_He wanted to ask his brother why he'd stayed hidden, wanted to ask him how he was doing and what he needed his big brother to do. Across from him, a deer picking at low hanging leaves flickered into existence. Dean wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulders, unable to stop himself from making the contact. _

_Sam remained still, only leaning in after several minutes. The hair on his head tickled Dean's nose and he wondered when Sam had last gotten it cut. It was longer that it usually was, brushing past his ears and curling slightly at the ends. It was frizzy and tangled, too, an unkempt mess that seemed to be begging for a good brushing. Usually, their Dad cut their hair or dragged them to a barber shop between hunts but it hadn't happened lately. And Sam's hair grew like a weed._

_It made him look younger than he was and Dean wondered what Sam would look like when his growth spurt really hit. Right now he was all skinny arms and legs and floppy hair. Would he be as tall as Dean? Would he look like Dean, who resembled their mother, or would he take after their father? Right now Dean could see the similarities in their faces. The shape of his brother's nose and the freckles that dotted it matched his own. _

_The urge to know, to really know what his brother would look like as an adult was an ache in his chest. He wanted Sam to have broad shoulders, to have their father's hands, to stand firmly on his own two feet. _

"_Hey Dean?" Sam's quiet voice cut through the silence around them. "If there are other places like this one, does that mean there are other Sams that are still alive?"_

_Dean's thoughts ground to a halt._

"_You're not dead, Sam."_

_His grip automatically tightened around Sam's shoulders as he choked out the words. He'd had to repeat them to himself over and over; it had become a mantra in the dead of night when Sam was quiet and the motel was empty. Sam was with him, Sam wasn't gone, Sam wasn't dead._

"_I'm not?" Sam cocked his head, "But, I… I know what I saw. I know you guys buri-" He paused mid sentence, looking away and blinking rapidly. "I know what I saw. I know what I am."_

_At his brother's words, Dean's thoughts automatically shifted and the scenery around them flickered, heavy rain pouring down in a nearly empty field. There was a mound of dirt and a pine box. Next to him, Sam cringed, turning into Dean and trembling._

"_Shit."_

_Dean brought the hand on his brother's shoulder around so that he could cover Sam's eyes. He heard a high keening as Sam shook. After several seconds they were soaked through, the downpour of rain covering them like a suffocating blanket. He could smell the wet earth and his mouth tasted like ash and blood. He'd had this nightmare and others like it before. There was one where Sam was still alive and banging on the coffin lid as Dean shoveled dirt down onto it and another where Sam had bled and bled and bled until the entire parking lot was a lake, but never had he accidently dragged his brother into one._

_Cursing again, Dean shut his own eyes and tried to will the dream to change. The memories were enough to make his heart race and his stomach twist: he couldn't imagine what they did to his brother. The rain slowed before stopping and the scent of grass returned. He heard the sound of running water beneath Sam's pained gasps and carefully opened his eyes._

_The scene had thankfully returned to normal. The creek was back, the deer was back. Even the path had shimmered back into existence. Dean turned his head until his mouth was close to his brother's ear. _

"_It's okay now, Sam. It's okay."_

_Dean gently removed the hand covering his brother's. It was wet with tears._ _Sam's fingers clutched at his brother's jacket and his eyes carefully opened. They were red rimmed. Dean took a moment to bury his head in his brother's neck. Even though the scenery had changed they were both soaking wet._

_"God. I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry."_

_He couldn't believe he had let that happen, had let his self control weaken like that. Dean had to be the strong one right now. Dad was gone and trusted him to keep Sam safe. His grip reflexively tightened and he let out a sigh of relief when Sam's arms tentatively wrapped around him. _

"'_I'm just, I'm just tired, Dean." His quiet voice filled the peaceful scenery. "I'm just so tired all the time. You know?"_

_Dean's heart froze in his chest. Sam had been acting distant but he'd figured that it was a normal reaction to everything that had happened. It hurt that Sam was so quiet, but Dean didn't blame him for it. His brother needed time to regroup as the rest of his family searched for a fix. Dean wondered now if it was something more serious, if Sam could handle another blow. _

_"You're going to be fine, okay?"_

_One of Sam's hands wormed free, sliding between them so that it rested against Dean's heart. _

"_I wish a little bit that I wasn't stuck in between, that's all."_

_Sam's voice was resigned and Dean realized that Sam wasn't feeling for his heartbeat. He was placing his hand over the tattoo that kept him bound to the living. His stomach churned at the realization and he gently tugged Sam's hand away._

"_I'm not letting you go, Sammy."_

_Sam sighed, flickering in and out of existence. _

"_I know."_

_He disappeared, there one moment and gone the next. His words hung in the air. The scene around Dean flickered twice, edges sharpening roughly before softening and fading away._

Dean woke up half slouched on the bench, his neck stiff from the uncomfortable position. The air around him had grown slightly warmer and the sun was so bright it hurt his eyes. He squinted and eyed the park, noting the differences between the dream world and the real world. His clothing was dry and the worn path leading to 'home' was gone. He wondered how long he'd been sleeping.

_Sammy?_

He whispered the word internally, trying not to feel disappointment when there was no response. There would be time later to cajole his brother into speaking again. Besides, right now Dean didn't know how he could help pull his brother from his morose thoughts. He had always had the ability to cheer Sam up but this time, he wasn't sure he did.

He felt almost as if half of him was struggling to fix things while the other half had accepted defeat and was in mourning.

Dean picked himself up off the bench, digging his hands into his pockets. The walk back to the motel was slow; there were more people on the sidewalks and cars lining the streets. He watched a mother and son duck into the hardware store and dodged an older man and his walker as he crossed the street.

As he neared the motel, his phone started ringing. Tugging it out of his jacket, he answered.

"Dad?"

Dean could hear the trepidation in his own voice. He had a feeling their dad calling two days earlier than expected could be nothing but bad news. Nothing ever seemed to go their way.

"How's Sam?"

His father's voice sounded tired, rough from what Dean recognized as lack of sleep. Dean, too, had spent most of his nights staring blankly at the ceiling above him.

"He's good."

Dean hoped his father wouldn't call him on the lie. It was too hard for him to try and reason out just how his brother felt; he was barely holding himself together. He knew he was supposed to be taking care of Sam but there was no way Sam could ever be 'good' with everything that had happened to him.

"Dean."

He heard the warning in his dad's voice and tried to keep his own voice calm.

"He's still adjusting. Sam hasn't really been around a whole lot."

Dean pretended not to notice the slightly bitter edge to his words or how his free hand seemed to clench at its own accord when he spoke them. Sam was trying to figure everything out, just like the rest of them, and it wasn't fair for Dean to start having an attitude about it. What did he have to complain about? What could he be going through that wasn't worse for his brother?

"Has he seemed..." His father's voice paused and Dean's body tightened at the tone. "Confused?"

Dean swallowed, remembering the times Sam had seemed much younger than he was, the times he clung close and couldn't remember what had happened. The few occasions he'd asked for a story or wondered aloud where their father had gone. They had only lasted moments before Sam snapped out of it, embarrassed as hell by his actions. Dean felt dread rise in him like a wave and stomped it down ruthlessly.

"Yeah."

It felt like some sort of betrayal, as if his brother's weakness was no one else's business, even their father's.

"Pack up your stuff and meet me in New Orleans."

Dean's heart skipped at his father's no nonsense order, his words catching in his throat as his mind tripped over itself. He and Sam had been stuck there for weeks while their father had left them out of the loop. What had changed?

"Dad?"

He could hear the question in his voice, the need. He was afraid of what this could mean, of whether or not Sam's confusion was normal or awful or something else altogether. He hadn't really thought of it before, hadn't let himself wonder just what each little thing could signify. It would have driven Dean crazy, had him nitpicking at everything that had happened. It would have had him calling his father constantly, looking for reassurance.

"It's fine Dean, just get you and Sammy here safely."

Dean opened his mouth to ask if their dad had found a cure, if Sammy could be fixed, if anything could be done, but couldn't bring himself to speak. He was too worried about what the answer would be. As much as he hated waiting, it was easier than hearing words that would shatter the small hope he clung to.

He wanted to believe, for just a few more moments, that everything was going to be fine. He wanted to believe that there would be more diners in the future, with Dad across from him and Sam next to him. He needed to think that his dad could still save the world and his brother would remain Dean's geeky side kick.

Dean was packed and on the road in under an hour.

* * *

Sam remained just out of sight, at the very back of Dean's mind. He could see nothing and the words his brother spoke sounded as if they were coming from another room. He listened to the sound of his brother's voice as he held a conversation with someone Sam couldn't hear. It was a soothing sound that brought up countless other memories.

Part of him wanted to know who Dean was talking to, what was happening that had Dean's voice slowly raising in frustration and confusion. Sam was tired, though, and feeling melancholy enough that he couldn't bring himself to truly care.

Next to him a memory shimmered, a sky blue shape whose long tail trailed after it as it slowly passed him. Sam's gaze flickered to it only long enough to know that it wouldn't hit him before he ignored it. The urge to hide in the memories had only grown with time. He wanted to see, smell, taste and experience things he no longer could.

He mostly ignored the colorful shapes now, eyes shutting whenever the desire grew too strong.

Walking in Dean's dream was enough to make the urge to slide into a memory practically overwhelming. The grass had been so green, the air so fresh and clear it had seemed to brush away the cobwebs that were slowly filling his head. He had wanted to sprawl out in the grass, to reach out and feel the coolness of the stream water as it flowed around his fingertips. He had loved the sensation of the sun on his face.

He pulled more tightly into himself, trying to shut out the soothing voice of his brother. He fluctuated between wanting Dean next to him, wanting Dean to never leave, and needing to shut away everyone and everything – including his brother.

For the life of him, Sam couldn't figure out how to explain that to Dean. He knew that Dean was lonely, listened as his brother held one sided conversations. It was just too hard sometimes to say anything, to do anything but wait for the end. 'Cause he could tell, even if Dean wouldn't admit it to himself, that Dean and Dad had no idea how to fix him.

Sam lay still for a while, locked so tightly in himself that nothing broke through. Far away, he could hear what sounded like the ocean, rolling waves and breaking surf. They had gone to the beach only a year or so ago, a case in California had wrapped up early and their father had needed a day to get the next hunt organized. He could remember the water rushing up around his ankles, the feeling of sand sticking to the bottoms of his feet.

Sam could recall Dean, splashing at him and laughing as freckles bloomed on his pale face. It was one of his favorite memories, one that had somehow faded until just that moment.

Even now, California was still his favorite state. He loved the sun, loved the beach and the way Dean had laughed and laughed after a wave had swept Sam's feet out from under him and left him soaking wet. They hadn't been back since but Sam kept a close eye out for any case that might take them in that direction.

_Sam?_

Dean's voice washed over him gently and Sam reluctantly let his own memory fade. Some of his thoughts had started to get fuzzy and he spent a lot of time making lists. Favorite foods, things his brother did when he was annoyed, the steps to cleaning a gun, the stories that Dean told him about their mother, how Dad's voice sounded depending on his mood. He didn't want to let anything slip away. After all, his memories were all he was anymore.

_Come on Sam, this is important._

Sam inwardly flinched and moved slightly farther away. He knew he was acting like a child, but he already felt bad enough about what he'd said in his brother's dream. Like always, when he was around Dean he couldn't help the words that escaped him.

_Sam._

He heard the desperation that Dean had been trying to hide bleed into his voice. Reluctantly he answered.

_Yeah?_

Sam felt a flood of warmth from his brother. How awful was Sam that he let his brother feel so bad? How terrible was he that he hid away when Dean needed him most?

_I just got a call from Dad. We're meeting up with him._

Sam wasn't sure how to feel about that. Their dad had been gone for a while and Sam was used to it being just him and Dean. He was used to Dean's random chatter, used to the routine. Before their father had left, he had questioned Sam through Dean for hours. He had kept his eyes on his oldest as if he were waiting for the world to come crashing down.

Then again, Sam was sure that – for his dad- the world had already crumbled. Sam supposed that was why it was so hard for him to be around the older man. Sam didn't have to look into Dean's eyes and see the desolation. He could hide away and pretend, like Dean, that it didn't exist. But every movement and word from his father seemed to shout his despair.

_Okay. We'll meet up with him._

He responded, not sure what else he was expected to say, what it might mean that they were meeting up with their father. Had he exhausted his resources? Had he stumbled onto a solution? The possibilities made Sam want to curl up and disappear again.

Sam drifted away slowly, moving so far back that he couldn't even hear Dean's voice when he spoke. Sam didn't know what his brother was thinking, what their dad had told him. He didn't really want to know.

He wanted to be whole again but knew that nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.

* * *

John Winchester slipped his phone back into his pocket and breathed in the thick smell of bleach. Fluorescent light flickered above him. It made everything seem washed out, both the worn tile floor and the faces of those he passed. Before he'd started hunting, hospitals had been only a confusing, foreign landscape, full of the fear and pain of war.

Now he recognized staff and layout as if he'd been there a dozen times and not just twice. He knew who were the night shift nurses, which doctors were in the middle of their rotations and which were finishing up for the night. He recognized the electronic pieces of equipment that littered the rooms, knew the layout of the general admissions floor compared to the emergency rooms.

In the waiting areas, he knew which family members were hanging around while a minor injury was fixed, and which were waiting on tenterhooks for news that would make or break them.

As the years had passed, hospitals had become so familiar that the smell was almost comforting. The strong stench of cleaning solution and the low murmur of voices meant that the hunt was over, that the healing could begin.

Dean wasn't at the point yet where he could read things like his dad could. John wasn't certain his oldest would ever get there. Dean hated hospitals, disliked how it made him feel weak and panicked his younger brother. Hospitals were a sign of failure to him, a reminder to do better. Dean eyed the doctors warily, hunched his shoulders when questions got too personal for his liking. He didn't pay attention to the other people waiting, never even bothered to learn the names of the doctors who had treated him.

Sam was similar, though hospitals didn't cause him frustration so much as fear. He didn't seem to think John or Dean could die if they weren't in a hospital. One too many close calls where they'd made it to the emergency room and then almost not made it back out. It was an irrational fear and it often made Sam revert to a much younger version of himself. He hated talking to doctors, would look to his brother and keep his mouth zipped until Dean would answer for him. Even the sight of a hospital had Sam unconsciously walking closer to the rest of his family.

John passed several rooms; the day was early enough that the hospital was still quiet. Visiting hours hadn't technically started yet, but he had flashed a badge and been let in without question.

Part of him didn't want to walk, didn't want to calmly take the elevator or smile at the nurses and make small talk. He had been a whirlwind of movement the moment he'd left his boys, had driven himself to the brink. He'd tracked down, interrogated, begged and threatened nearly every hunter he'd come across since he'd started.

It had been more difficult than he'd thought it would be, leaving his children, but there was no way he could have taken Dean with him. He couldn't bear it if his oldest had seen the things he was capable of doing to keep his family intact.

While John knew that Dean would do anything to save Sam, he couldn't, as a father, let his son see what he had done the last few weeks. Dean considered himself a badass, world-weary and jaded. He was still young, though, still had a spark in him that was excited about everything. There was very little Dean hadn't seen but John would fight with everything he had to protect the little bit of innocence he still possessed.

John touched the papers stuffed into his back pocket, the rough texture so comforting it made him feel dizzy. The information he'd gained from the demon had been worth it, at least. It had been an impulsive move that he'd only survived by sheer luck. It had been a last ditch effort, a desperate act by a man who had never felt so desperate.

None of his other leads had gone anywhere; none of his other contacts had been able to give him jack shit. No one knew how to reconnect a soul to a body without damaging the soul. No one knew how to fix a decomposing body without creating a walking corpse. Friends had closed doors with pitying eyes and others had spit at him and called his questions blasphemy.

He would remember ho had tried to help and who had shown him the door. Winchesters didn't forget.

He hadn't explained to any of them what had really happened, though. None of them could claim that he'd done anything that violated the code of honor they all supposedly lived by.

Stopping in front of a door in a wing of the hospital he rarely set foot in, he cautiously opened it and stuck his head in. Everything was the same as it had been the day before, when he'd first figured this out and stopped by.

He closed it with a quiet click and stepped away from the room, ignoring the feelings of doubt that crowded in on him until every breath was a challenge. If this experience had taught him one thing, it was that there was nothing he wouldn't do for his family.

Nothing.

* * *

If you have even an inkling that makes you feel like reviewing... Please do!: )


	4. Fear

**Title:** My Brother's Keeper**  
Chapter Four:** Fear  
**Rating**: R**  
Warnings**: A bit of descriptive gore and language. Oh, and angst.**  
Description:** Teenchesters! The Winchesters try to recover from a hunt gone wrong when the unexpected occurs. LimpSam! BigBrotherDean! DrivenPapaWinchester!**  
****Author's Note:** I honestly apologize for taking so so sooo long to get this out... Things have been crazy... Thank you to those who have stuck with me!

* * *

Sam blinked his eyes groggily, mind swimming as the world around him stuttered into focus. There was a rushing sound in his ears, as if he were stuck in a wind tunnel, and his mouth tasted like stale chips and caffeine. He winced as he carefully straightened his neck. He was sitting up, as if he'd fallen asleep while watching a movie or reading a book.

Around him the world was mostly black and his vision strained as it tried to adjust to the lack of light. There was a small beam in front of him and it cut through the darkness like one of his father's hunting knives. He watched it warily for a few minutes, waiting for it to move or grow or disappear.

Sam's mind twisted as he tried to figure out just what it could be. He was fairly certain it wasn't a flashlight, the beam was too strong. And he was also just as certain it wasn't a spotlight, the shape of the beam was all wrong.

Confused, he turned his head, thoughts tripping as he tried to remember just where he was and what was happening. Sam focused on the surroundings closest to him, attempting to connect his body and his seemingly disjointed thoughts. Under him he recognized the low vibration that was the Impala and the leather seats that were home.

With his gaze no longer focused on the light, the dark space around him slowly began to sharpen, shadowed shapes distinguishing as his eyes adjusted. Leather seats and the smell of gun oil and fast food filled his nose. He turned his head, automatically searching for his brother and father.

He wondered if he'd fallen asleep again in the back seat, if they were stopped at a red light or waiting for a midnight train to pass. It had happened before; they spent so much time in the Impala that drifting off was no longer a challenge. In fact, the sound of the engine running and his brother and father talking in low voices put him to sleep faster than a soft motel bed.

Sam was the only one in the vehicle. He blinked, his ears suddenly detecting and deciphering the Metallica song that blared through the speakers. He hadn't noticed it before; it was as if someone had just cranked up the volume while he hadn't been looking. Sam listened to it for a moment, singing along in his head as the song played on. He toyed with the idea that Dad and Dean had gone to check out the location of a possible hunt and brought him along, or that they'd run into a fast food place and had him wait with the car.

Those events were common place as well.

He listened as the song ended and another one started, waiting for the confusion he'd woken up with to dissipate. Sam was always a bit bleary after waking up, needing a good cup of coffee or a hot shower to fully function. Dean had teased him more than once about it, calling him 'Sleeping Beauty' or 'Goldilocks,' or reminding him how much coffee would stunt his growth.

The younger brother's mind strained as he tried to recall just what had happened, why he was in the Impala and both his father and brother were not. Behind his eyes a headache was beginning to form. Reaching to turn the radio off, even if the sound was somehow comforting; he cringed at the pain that flared along his side.

He gritted his teeth, pushing the pain away even as his thoughts tripped again. Even though he was in the Impala, the view was strange and his mind ground to a halt as it finally clicked. Sam had been able to reach the radio because he was in the driver's seat. It was a spot he'd occupied only two or three times, and just recently had his legs even grown long enough to touch the pedals.

His brother had let him drive it only a few months ago on the back roads of Minnesota while their father had been in town gathering supplies. He'd barely been able to reach the brake and he'd had to whine and wheedle until Dean had given in. Sam could remember the rush of air from the open windows and the smile that had split his brother's face. The flat land around them had seemed to stretch out forever and Sam was certain that he'd never felt the road like he had in that moment.

Pushing away the memory, Sam glanced down at his frame. Even if he had just woken up, he'd never felt this disoriented from sleep alone. As time went on his confusion remained and he couldn't help but feel anxious. It was as if he were drunk, as if he were taking drugs like sometimes the kids at school mentioned in the locker room or bathroom between classes. He wanted his brother by his side, wished his father would come out of the dark and tap on the window. He needed lights in the distance and his headache to fade.

Sam took in the leather jacket and ripped jeans he wore and his thoughts skidded to a halt.

"Oh shit."

His voice was gravelly and sounded as if it belonged to someone else.

It did.

He moved the rearview mirror and clenched his teeth when again pain flared at the movement. Sam took in the short hair and familiar eyes, a face that he knew better than his own.

_Dean? _

He called out for his brother even as his eyes scanned over the scene in front of him. No wonder his mind had been hesitant to recall earlier memories. He'd been hiding all day, buried so deeply inside his brother's mind that nothing had reached him. Time had passed in a blur and now he wasn't sure if hours or weeks had passed. Where were they? What had happened?

Sam strained his eyes to see what the lone light illuminated. He recognized it now, the beam from the one unbroken headlight cutting into the darkness just outside the vehicle. Tall grass blew lazily in the wind and beyond that a gloom unimpeded by street lights or houses waited. The right side of the vehicle was butted up against a tall tree. From where he sat Sam could see the rough shape of bark and the dark green of leaves. One of the windows was cracked; Sam could smell grass and rain and let the slight breeze wash over him.

It was so good to suddenly be able to smell again, to feel again.

_Dean?_

He inwardly called for his brother again, fighting the panic when once more there was no response. Any moment Dean would say something, would laughingly demand his body back or ask what it was like to be in the driver's seat. Sam was certain. He shut his eyes, trying to sense where his brother had gone, digging into the corners he recognized.

Any moment.

When nothing happened Sam clenched his eyes painfully shut and a wave of despair washed over him.

_Dean!_

In the last few weeks Sam had gotten used to not having a body, had gotten used to sharing Dean's heartbeat and breaths. He was used to having Dean _there_ whenever he needed him. There was nowhere to go, no way for _Sam and Dean_to be Sam and Dean. It had become second nature for Sam, to reach for Dean and always have Dean reach back. Now, the lack of his brother had his heart racing and his head throbbing.

Sam glanced around the vehicle again, taking in the lack of civilization and the still running motor. He moved to undo his seatbelt, wondering if the car had simply gone off the road or if there was something else involved. He wished he knew why his brother wasn't responding, how long they'd been on the road. There was so much he needed to figure out, so much he had to try and piece together.

As he reached for the buckle pain blossomed across his left side and dark spots flitted across his vision. He cried out and froze, his chest rattling as he fought back the tears that threatened to spill. He had somehow forgotten about the pain, that Dean was hurt.

Sam concentrated on it, trying to disconnect himself enough so that he could figure out how serious Dean's body was injured. It was hard however, the pain seemed to pulse with his heart beat; it had crawled its way into his head and taken root. If he closed his eyes he could picture it, perched between memories, a dark red knot that grew and grew with each moment.

It had been dull when he'd woken up, a slight stinging that had been easily dismissible. He couldn't believe he'd overlooked it, his father had told him again and again that he had to be aware of his surroundings. People would depend on him in hunts; his family would depend on him. Instead he had ignored it, had floundered like a child and wished for family instead of taking stock of himself and making a plan. Sam was certain that was what his brother would have done.

_Dean?_

Again his brother was silent.

He trembled and forced a hand to skim over the injury, gritting his teeth against the sensation. His brother's clothing was slick with blood and in the dark it was impossible to see how bad it was. Moments later he was panting, head resting against the cool glass of the window as he let his hand fall to the side. Whatever had happened, it was bad. Sam had been certain for a moment that he would black out.

He frantically tried to remember which pocket his brother always slid his phone into, fingers clumsily searching even as tears started to spill. He couldn't move too quickly or too much, each twinge of pain had him biting at his lip.

The phone was clunky and huge with a battery that only lasted hours and he hoped that Dean had remembered to charge it before they'd left town. He wished that he had paid attention as well, that he had pulled himself from his funk and actually kept his brother company. Who knew if his brother had been conscious and asking for him while injured? What if he'd been calling out for Sam, trying to get help?

Sam might have been able to do something useful, might have been able to prevent his brother from getting hurt. He might have finally been able to do something worthwhile since this entire mess had happened.

In the dark he searched through the pockets on Dean's coat and tried not to sob from the pain. Dean's shirt was still stuck to his side, sticky and slick. He could feel the blood spreading, pooling beneath him. Sam didn't know how serious it was, didn't know how long Dean's body would last before it gave out. He only knew that he needed help, that Dean needed help.

Dad.

The thought echoed in his head and his fingers clutched at the far pocket of Dean's coat. He could feel the phone in there, and his fingers slipped as they tried to retrieve it. He hissed aloud at the pain that spiked, trembled as his head grew foggy for several seconds.

In the dim light he fought to find the unlock button even as his mind called out for his brother once more. He wondered if Dean was simply unconscious and inwardly prayed that it was nothing but a knocked head that had banished his brother.

The blue light from the phone hurt his eyes, even with the lone headlight still shining. He scrolled through the numbers, the buttons turning dull red as his fingers moved. They were smaller than he remembered and he misdialed twice, fingers slipping and hitting buttons he had no intention of pressing.

Sam raised his arm, trying to get the phone up to his ear, and had to stop as the entire world shimmered like a mirage. He shook his head, shutting his eyes as the movement caused whatever Dean had last eaten to rise threateningly.

"Dean?"

Sam refocused himself, his father's voice cutting through the seemingly impossible situation with ease. Even if Sam fought with his dad, even if the older man undoubtedly found his youngest to be nothing but a pain, the sound of his dad's voice at that moment made him feel almost like he could handle what was happening.

"Dean, what's going on?"

His father's voice sounded again, slightly impatient and edged with worry. Sam opened his mouth and tried to speak.

"Da-"

He choked mid word, grief and pain stopping anymore from emerging.

"Are you okay?"

His father spoke slowly, and it sounded to Sam as if he were using an old walkie-talkie.

"Dad," Sam tried again, this time forcing the wet words out, "Dad, it's me."

On the phone there was a pregnant pause; the sound of a door being closed.

"Sam?"

Sam nodded his head in agreement, forgetting the pain it would cause and that his father couldn't see him. His vision grayed and when he came to he was halfway slouched on the seat and next to him the phone was open.

Groggily he picked it back up, the now constant pain almost numbing.

"- answer me this second! Sam? Sa-"

"Dad." He spoke over his father's frantic voice, unsure how long he'd been passed out, "Dad, something is wrong with Dean."

There were tears again in his voice. He needed his dad next to him, needed his dad to make it all better.

"Where are you two Sammy?"

Sam glanced around, saw the open fields and night sky and tried not to break down again. They could be anywhere.

"I don't know, there's grass and a tree and I can't, I can't reach Dean." Sam could hear the helplessness in his voice.

"I really need you to concentrate Sammy, how long have you two been driving?"

He listened to his father's words and swallowed back the urge to cry again. Had his dad known he'd been hiding? Had he figured out what an awful younger brother Sam was?

"Sam? I really need you to try Sam, okay?"

"Okay." Sam whispered, trying to remember the last time he'd connected with his brother. His brother had gotten the phone call, and while Sam had been drifting away, he'd caught the _motion_that his brother had been feeling. "Not long after your phone call. He wanted to be moving. Dean's been bored."

He could practically hear his father thinking and sat quietly, trying to ignore how the numb pain slowly traveled down his leg. Sam didn't like how fast it had spread, how foggy it made him feel.

"Okay, that means you guys are probably pretty close."

Sam remained quiet, studying the way the long grass outside the car bent as a particularly strong gust of wind blew past. He could hear his dad moving and another person say something.

"What's wrong with Dean, Sammy?"

Sam looked down at Dean's bloodied side and swallowed.

"There is just, there is just so much blood. And it hurts, it really hurts."

He listened to his father curse quietly, "I know this is hard Sam, but you have to really look. How bad is Dean injured? Is his chest damaged?"

Sam shut his eyes, looking at the blood made his mind spin. He could remember the rough feel of pavement beneath him, the pool of red slowly growing beneath him.

"Dad." Sam tasted the desperation in his voice, "Dad,I don't… I don't want to die."

Above him the ceiling of the Impala seemed to flicker until there was bright sky above him. He recognized the view, could feel the present distorting into what had happened only a few weeks ago. The numbness was familiar and it had him trembling. His mind turned in on itself, the sharp taste of fear flooding his mouth.

"I think Dean's going to die."

He whispered the words, unsure he'd said them out loud until he heard his father curse into the phone.

"You listen to me Sam, Dean is not dying. Do you understand me?"

Sam automatically tried to straighten in his seat at his father's tone. The action was too much and the blue sky bled into his vision until it was all that he could see. He could hear himself whimpering as his world seemed to shift. He was dying, with the sky above him and the pavement beneath him.

"Sam!"

He could hear his father's voice but it grew dimmer with every second that passed. It was just him and the sky, surrounding him like the wall of a huge wave. It was breathtaking, terrifying.

Sam knew that at any moment it would crush him.

* * *

John watched Dean sleep, rubbing at his eyes and wishing for a drink. He needed something to take the edge off, had been walking the line for so long that at any moment he could slide off and into the dark. He'd been there before, after Mary had died he'd spent more time trying to figure out if he wanted to claw his way free or let the darkness consume him. The darkness was there still, just out of sight, watching and waiting for him to show weakness.

It would consume him in the first chance it got, tear at his flesh and bones until there was nothing left. For a moment he could taste whiskey on his tongue, could imagine a dark smoky room full of nameless faces.

He let the daydream slip away, forced the demons deep inside. He had decided long ago that he wasn't going to take that path.

Hours ago he'd been on pins and needles, everything that he'd been trying to put together slowly pulling apart. Sam and Dean were hurt, Sam terrified and Dean bleeding out on the side of the road. John had been frantic, for the second time feeling as if everything was slipping through his fingers.

After how everything had turned out, he should be happy. He felt weary instead; Dean's surgery had been long enough that by the end of it he'd been ready to burst. His energy was non-existent, his reserves were tapped, he was nearly certain he was running on coffee and desperation.

It had been sheer luck that John had picked the right road, that he'd gotten to his sons in time.

Dean had been unconscious, Sam unresponsive.

The hospital room was on the third floor. It was past eleven and the night nurses were lazily making their shifts. Outside the room he could hear them, sneakers tapping against the floor as they walked up and down the halls. He'd managed to get Nurse Becky to let him stay the night, had sweet talked the older woman and played the distraught father so well she had even picked him up dinner for him. John wasn't certain how much of it was pretend, what was con artist and what was worried parent. The chicken sandwich sat like lead in his stomach.

Dean hadn't woken up, hadn't stirred since the nurse had rolled him into the recovery room and the doctor had told John how well the surgery had gone. The entire scene reminded him of Sam, of how he'd looked right after they'd found him in the parking lot. Sam's freckles had stood out in sharp relief on his pale face; he'd looked impossibly young, impossibly small.

His oldest son looked tiny against the white hospital sheets.

John slouched forward, letting his arm snake out to gently grasp his son's wrist.

Dean's pulse was steady beneath his fingers, a familiar rhythm he let himself get lost in. John wasn't certain how long it would take for Dean to be stable enough for what they needed to do, nor was he certain how the trauma had affected his youngest. The tattoo had survived the crash, but there was deep bruising just brushing up against the edge of it. It was getting darker as time passed, and he didn't know how the magic would respond.

Shutting his eyes, he rubbed at his forehead with his free hand and tried to remember the last time he'd slept in a bed. Had it been Wednesday night? Thursday? Dean had been one bed over, staring at the ceiling and lost in his own thoughts while in the background the television had played quietly. His son had been hollowed eyed and slowly slipping away.

John wouldn't even try to imagine the last time he'd known with certainty that his two boys were one bed over, resting and in good health.

It seemed as if years had passed.

* * *

He watched as the doctor left the room, taking in the door as it clicked shut. The last few days had been a blur of bad food, nurses, and brief moments where Dean floated somewhere between awake and asleep. Outside the window the sun sat on the horizon, oranges and yellows spilling out from between the clouds and into the quiet room.

Dean sat propped on the bed, two pillows beneath him, his eyes blurrily trying to focus. It felt as if there was cotton stuffed in his ears and a filter in front of his eyes. The sun was too bright, and the rays of light burned as if it were the first time he'd ever seen anything but shadows.

He recognized the numb feeling, knew that the way he seemed to float outside his body was a side effect of the bucket full of drugs being pumped through his system. It was hard for him to remember how long he'd been awake, how long the doctor had been asking him questions, how long he'd been there. Dean was coasting and too drugged to care that his car was in the shop and his body was a wreck.

On the bedside table there was a vase full of limp daises and he eyed it curiously, unsure how flowers had ended up in his room. On one of the petals a fly lazily crawled and Dean wondered where his brother was. His father had been in and out of the room, sometimes there when he'd woken up, sometimes not, but Dean hadn't felt Sam.

The connection was still there, at least, Dean thought it was. His head was muddled, his thoughts a mess. His brain couldn't seem to connect the dots to his brother anymore, and the headaches that he'd gotten while trying were debilitating. He didn't know how it had happened, why his brother was suddenly unreachable, whether it was the accident or the drugs or something else altogether.  
It didn't help that Dean couldn't remember exactly what had transpired, just that he'd been in an accident with his brother and the Impala. The wreck itself was a blank. Hell, if he hadn't woken up in the hospital Dean wouldn't have even believed it. He was a careful driver, even if he enjoyed letting it loose on the open road.

Everything right now was too hard to hold on to, each memory seemed only half formed. The doctor had said that it was a symptom of the concussion he'd sustained plus the blunt trauma his body had gone through. It was the reason that when he self medicated after a hunt he usually just took enough to take the edge off.

In retrospect, while he was curious, ultimately Dean didn't care how the accident occurred. He just needed to know where his brother was and he needed to know now.

It was terrifying, not having anyone explain if Sam was okay, not understanding why his brother wouldn't respond. His father had been evasive, watching Dean with focused eyes as he explained that Dean had been found on the side of the road and the Impala was in the shop. However, he hadn't been able to ask his dad much of anything. Dean seemed to only stay awake long enough to eat and shit before he'd slide back under. It was another frustrating side effect of the drugs.

His father was around somewhere, the back of the chair next to Dean's bed had a worn leather coat slung over it. The man was in and out of the room at all hours of the day, sometimes there and sometimes not when Dean swam out of sleep. He was fairly certain that his father didn't have a hotel room; Dean wasn't sure how he had convinced the staff to let him stay.

Dean glanced blearily out the window again, squinting against the light and wishing the sun would finish setting or rising. It hurt his head and was making his eyes burn.

The door opened and his dad smiled as he stepped into the room.

"How you feeling?" His father's voice was gravely and worn. He pushed in front of him a standard hospital wheelchair. He had his shirt sleeves pushed up over his elbows and dark circles beneath his eyes. Dean blinked and smiled weakly back.

"Huh?" Dean eyed the chair warily.

His dad pushed the chair closer before slouching down into the empty seat next to the bed.

"Better right? I talked to Dr. Brenn and he said he adjusted your dosage again for the pain."

Dean blinked again, mind tripping as it tried to follow his father's words. No wonder he was struggling to hold onto his sanity. He needed the pain to think. John reached out and gently clasped one of Dean's hands.

"Dean?"

He nodded, not trusting his mind and mouth to connect correctly. He had already struggled to put together a coherent sentence whenever a nurse prodded him awake to check his vitals or help him to the bathroom.

"Good. Good." John used his free hand to wipe at his face before his gaze glanced at the window. The sun had moved closer to the earth, shadows stretching across the parking lot, and Dean recognized that it was setting and not rising. The last time he'd been awake it had been dark out. "Dean, you should try and rest up."

"Huh?" His dad usually paced back and forth when he was here and Dean was alert, shooting off questions about everything from the crash to his brother to the car. Dean had told him more than once that his brain wasn't up to speed yet, that he couldn't remember.

John grinned again and even through the haze that seemed to cling to him like a second skin, Dean knew that something was happening. He hadn't noticed it before, but his Dad looked like he was in the middle of a tense hunt, like he was next to the nest of vampires and getting ready to go in.

"Dad? Is Sam okay?"

And that was the sticking point that Dean couldn't seem to get past. He forced the words out of his mouth because he had to ask. If he couldn't reach his brother, how could anyone make sure that Sam was okay? How could Dean or their Dad help Sam if he was outside of their reaches?

And why wasn't his dad questioning him again? And why had he brought a wheelchair? The doctor had told Dean during one of his few moments of lucidity that he'd be bedridden for at least three more days.

He was too weak to check the tattoo under his hospital gown, too weak to do much of anything. His arms felt like lead, his legs as if they weren't attached to his body. Already he could feel the pull of sleep, slowly trying to lull him away from consciousness. His eyelids felt heavy, his head cloudy, and the lumpy bed beneath him was soft as a feather. He cursed his body, wanted to clench his fists and get out of bed and stomp his feet. Instead he struggled to hear the words his father said.

His dad's fingers tightened over Dean's, "Don't worry son, we'll get Sam back. You get some rest, and I'll take care of everything else."

Dean felt himself slowly slide back into sleep, his eyes closing even as he called out again for his brother.

There was no response.


End file.
